


Kitchen Overhaul

by Powerfulweak



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Baker!Dean, Bakery AU, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Misunderstanding, NSFW, Reality TV, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Romance, bottom!Castiel, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Powerfulweak/pseuds/Powerfulweak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Dean Winchester, his family’s bakery is his life, even if business is tanking. When his brother volunteers them for the reality show “Kitchen Overhaul”, Dean is less than enthusiastic with changing anything about his beloved bakery. He is even less enthusiastic to deal with the infamously icy host, Chef Castiel Novak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Truthismusic](http://truthismusic.livejournal.com/) for her wonderful artwork and input during the creative process. Your art and premise made writing this a breeze. 
> 
> [Art Masterpost](http://truthismusic.livejournal.com/23963.html%20)
> 
>  Massive thank you to [Anna](http://fleuranna.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing. Your input was invaluable and I am so grateful for all your hard work.

"You did what?!" Dean exclaims. The rolling pin clatters against the metal prep table and a puff of flour rises into the air. Sam gives Dean a serious look, leaning over the bowl of batter in front of him.  
  
“I registered us to be on  _Kitchen Overhaul_ ,” Sam repeats, “and we got selected.”  
  
“What? Why?” Dean gapes, eventually regaining his composure and grabbing his rolling pin once more.  
  
“Because, Dean, their site said that they were looking for businesses in dire straits,” Sam says as he scrapes the chocolate mixture from the sides of the bowl. “We’re practically the definition of ‘dire straits’,” he finishes, folding the thick batter in on itself.  
  
“No we’re not,” Dean denies weakly, flattening out his poor dough with much more force than necessary. “What the hell gave you that idea?”  
  
“I do our books, Dean, and you know we’re in debt up to our eyeballs,” Sam states plainly, placing the batter aside and reaching for a parchment-lined pan. “Have been for years.”  
  
Dean looks away, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his wrist. Sam isn’t lying, and Dean knew it. Every month, they noticeably sank a little deeper into the red, constantly cutting corners and cutting staff until the only remaining employees were just him and Sam. Occasionally, Jo would come in and work the front counter to take home a dozen donuts at the end of the day in lieu of cash. She always said that the donuts were worth far more than Dean could pay her, but he knows she’s just doing them a favor.

“Business will pick up,” Dean mumbles, but the tone of his voice betrays his message of defeat.  
  
“You’ve said that since Dad retired,” Sam replies dully, “but every year we take one step forward and two steps back.”  
  
Dean turns and grumpily grabs two pie pans from the metal rack behind him. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now. Pie-making is his therapy, his happy place. When he’s rolling out crust or carefully peeling apples for the dessert, Dean’s mind instantly clears. Sam discussing the bakery’s issues casts a pall over everything.  
  
“You think showing off our asses on national TV is going to fix everything?” Dean asks skeptically.  
  
Sam shrugs as he presses some chilled cookie dough into the bottom of his pan. “The show has a good track record. I’ve done the research. A lot of times, just having an outsider’s opinion can show you what needs to get fixed, but if nothing else, it could be free publicity.” Sam places a handful of Oreo cookies in perfect rows down into the cookie dough to later be covered in brownie batter. Dean calls these “Slutty Brownies”.  
  
“I don’t think so, Sammy,” Dean huffs as he cuts his pie crust in half. “If anything, we’ll be the laughing stock of the city.”  
  
“We won’t,” Sam says, not looking up from his brownies. “There’s nothing wrong with asking for some help. Jess said Antonio’s restaurant in Wicker Park really turned around after being on the show. She said Chef Novak-”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Castiel Novak. The show’s host. He comes in, spends a couple days observing and then tells you how you can improve and shows you how to implement any changes.”  
  
Dean grimaces, “Isn’t he the guy that yells at people until they cry?” he asks.  
  
Sam sighs and nods. “That’s on his cooking competition show though,” he replies. “He doesn’t really do too much yelling on this one.”  
  
Dean shakes his head and gently presses the crust into one of the pie pans. “I’m not letting you do this,” he says solemnly as he scallops the crust’s edge carefully with his fingers. “I own this place and there’s no way I’m letting you bring in some… interloper to tell me that I’m a fuck-up.”  
  
Sam huffs sharply and grabs the pan, thrusting it into the oven. “You’re not a fuck-up, Dean,” he says carefully, “It’s just that- well, there have always been issues with this place, ever since it reopened. But things have snowballed in the last few years and we’re going to need to make some serious changes.”  
  
“Not gonna happen, Sammy,” Dean snarls, walking over to the stove where the apple filling simmers. He stirs it, checking the consistency and tenderness of the apples.  
  
“Well, that’s not entirely up to you to decide,” Sam counters. “I own half this place, and if you don’t agree to this...” Sam hesitates before continuing, “I’m walking, Dean.”  
  
Dean’s expression drops and Sam feels a pang of guilt from the betrayed look he’s getting. “You wouldn’t,” Dean says in shock.  
Sam raises an eyebrow, knowing that it’s unfair to threaten leaving in order to get his way, but sometimes Dean needs a hard push in the right direction to do what’s best for himself or the bakery.  
  
“I can just as easily be a lawyer as I can be a baker, Dean,” Sam says. “The money would be better, I can tell you that much.”  
  
Dean scowls and wipes his flour-covered hands on his apron. “Dammit, Sammy,” he curses, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
“Look- all I’m asking is that you let Chef Novak come in for an assessment.” Sam holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “If you get a bad feeling about this, or if they make any changes too extreme, we’ll send them packing.”  
  
“I already have a bad feeling about this,” Dean mutters, working his dough into the pie pan. He glances up at Sam for a moment, watching his brother wipe down his work area (“mise en place” as Sam is quick to remind him) on the prep table opposite him.  
  
Dean knows the bakery is in trouble. There’s no denying that business has waned ever since their Dad left without warnin, leaving Sam and Dean responsible for the bakery, and the subsequent increased competition and staffing issues didn’t help matters. Dean just didn’t want someone to come in and change this place into something it wasn’t meant to be, with frou-frou pinks and pastels. That’s not the kind of place he wants, not the kind of place their mom had wanted.  
  
Dean watches as Sam opens the door of the walk-in cooler, grabbing several packages of butter to start on the puff pastry.  
  
“You give me your word that if I say they go, they go?” Dean gives Sam a cautious look, receiving a quick nod in return. He sighs and throws his hands up in the air in defeat. “Fine! You can bring this… Chef Novak in.” Sam gives a soft smirk; Dean can tell he’s trying to tamp down his enthusiasm over this victory. Dean rolls his eyes and refocuses on the second pie crust.  
  
“Don’t look so smug, Sammy,” he mutters, “We don’t know what’s going to happen yet.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel glosses over the contents of the file folder in his hands, examining the details about their next stop. “Winchester and Sons’ Bakery,” he mumbles, absently examining the supplied photographs. “A father and son place?” He looks at Crowley sitting in the driver’s seat over the top of his sunglasses.  
  
“Two brothers, actually,” Crowley answers. “The father retired about 6 years ago and they just never bothered to change the name.” Castiel hums to himself, making a mental note of things that are definitely going on his list of changes. He can here Hannah enthusiastically tapping on her tablet behind him.  
  
“You have a radio interview tomorrow morning at six-thirty,” she mumbles, “That’s not too early, is it?”  
  
“No, that should be fine,” Castiel says, pushing his glasses up and rubbing at his eyes, “What time is our call here?”  
  
“Seven,” she answers, “We’ll do the call-in in the car.” Castiel nods and smiles. He likes Hannah. She’s a good assistant, efficient. Plus, she makes it so Castiel’s interactions with his producer Crowley are at an absolute minimum.  
  
“We’re moving up the call to four-thirty,” Crowley mutters, eyes not leaving the road, “Need to be there when the owners arrive.” Hannah glares at him with a pinched expression, and sighs, mumbling something about “ _taking 15 minutes for a damn phone call_.”  
  
Castiel leans back in his seat and stares out the window as the rest of the ride passes in silence. He closes the folder, deciding he doesn’t need more details. After four seasons, he knows people like this like the back of his hands: Co-dependent family members who believe passion and mediocre kitchen capabilities can make up for business acumen and logical thought; It’s the same story nearly every time. He doesn’t need 20 pages of documents to tell him that.

 

* * *

 

The car pulls up outside the bakery, the large equipment van parking close behind. The cameraman and sound guy hop out of the passenger seat and join Castiel, Hannah and Crowley on the sidewalk where they stand, staring up at the bakery’s store front.

“Oh my,” Castiel mutters. He gazes up at the shabby sign emblazoned with “Winchester and Sons Bakery” in fading red paint. The building before them is in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint and a contractor. The awnings over the doors and windows are threadbare and sun-bleached and the wood paneling of the siding is chipped and cracking.  
  
“Hannah,” Castiel says. Hannah hands him the tablet at the unspoken request and he quickly makes a note of the exterior. The front door of the bakery opens with a chime and two men walk out.  
  
Castiel doesn’t quite know what he was expecting the owners to look like, but it certainly wasn’t this. The two guys before him look like they stepped out of an Axe body spray commercial. They are both tall and broad, in worn jeans with their plain chef jackets hanging open over faded t-shirts. The taller man has shoulder length hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He extends his hand forward toward Castiel.  
  
“Chef Novak,” he says, smiling widely, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Sam Winchester, and this is my brother Dean.” Castiel shakes his hand and mumbles a greeting before turning his attention toward the other brother. The man nods a greeting to Castiel, but his expression is not a friendly one. Castiel returns the nod, unperturbed. He’s used to being seen as a threat in circumstances like this; normally, there’s always someone involved with the business that’s opposed to his involvement. Crowley loves people like that; he says it gives the show an air of tension and drama.  
  
“Very nice to meet you both,” Castiel says. Sam and Dean shake hands with Crowley and Hannah. The side doors of the van open and the crew begins to unload the camera and sound equipment.  
  
“Why are there cameras here?” Dean asks, looking to his brother.  
  
“Because we’re filming? For telly? The little box with the moving pictures and whatnot?” Crowley says patronizingly.  
  
Dean frowns, his shoulders stiffening and looking like he’s about to give Crowley a piece of his mind.  
  
“We film everything,” Hannah pipes up in attempt to diffuse the situation. “When we’re done, we cut together the best material. We never know when something interesting will happen.” She smiles diplomatically. Dean rolls his eyes and glares at his brother. Some unspoken accusation passes between them. Castiel can’t help but feel a tinge of pity for the two. Clearly, Dean is caught off-guard by most of this, and he’ll be the one to throw up the most resistance to anything Castiel might offer. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can already spot the gears in Crowley’s head whirring with eagerness.  
  
“Shall we start, then?” Crowley asks, clapping his hands together. The brothers lead the way into the bakery.

 

* * *

 

Hannah and Crowley hang back behind the camera and sound operators as Sam and Dean lead Castiel on a short tour. The bakery is small and clean, if not slightly cramped. Castiel has to wonder how two men as large as Sam and Dean Winchester can maneuver themselves in a space like this. They show the kitchen, the prep area and nearly-bare cafe area.

“You don’t have enough seating,” Castiel comments as he skims his hand across the formica top of a vintage diner-style table.  
  
“We really don’t have the space to accommodate-” Sam explains.  
  
“Yes, you do,” Castiel cuts him off briskly. He picks up a small laminated menu from the table, glancing at the selection and grimacing.  
  
“Alright,” Castiel says as he set the menu back down and stares pointedly at the brothers, “I’ve seen several things that need to be either improved or nixed.” He moves past them, leading them back into the kitchen.  
  
“You’re working with domestic ovens, not professional ones. You can increase your output threefold by doing so.” Sam and Dean both nod, and Sam elbows his brother lightly in the side.  
  
“Next, your kitchen set up is a joke.” Castiel says flatly. The brothers’ expressions both falter, but Castiel catches Crowley’s gleeful look out of the corner of his eye. “You have to cross the room to get to your cooler and then to the other corner to get to your sink. Your mise en place…” Castiel sighs heavily and looks at Sam and Dean.  
  
“Do either of you know anything about cars?” Both men snort indignantly and Dean raises his hand.  
  
“Uh, you could say that?” he replies.  
  
“You should treat your kitchen like an an engine. Your mise is what keeps it greased. One item out of place is like throwing a spanner in the works.” Castiel says, quietly tapping on the tablet.  
  
“Pardon me, Chef,” Dean says, raising his hand once more, “But if we’re talking about my own comfort level-”  
  
“This isn’t about your comfort level. These are tried and true methods.” Castiel says seriously, his infamous vitriol surfacing, “If you had any sort of professional training, you would understand that.” Dean’s face hardens, but he doesn’t say another word.  
  
“Now to the front,” Castiel says, turning on his heel and walking out of the kitchen. Sam and Dean follow after him, trying to squeeze by the crew members. Castiel stands in the center of the room and glances at his tablet.  
  
“First off, how many staff do you have?” he asks.  
  
“It’s just me and Dean,” Sam answers, “Once in awhile, we have a friend work the counter, if we know it’s going to be busy.” Castiel’s eyes widen.  
  
“No staff?’  
  
“We don’t exactly have the income to support it,” Dean replies sardonically.  
  
“So if a customer comes in and no one’s at the front counter…?” He raises an eyebrow in their direction.  
  
“We have a bell,” Dean says with a sarcastic smile. Castiel looks at the small silver bell on the counter and then back to Dean doubtfully.  
  
“An extra staff member would help your customer base.” Castiel offers, “I seriously wonder how many people have stopped in, just to leave right away, thinking you were closed.  
  
“First off, I recommend a revamp of the cafe area,” Castiel points behind the counter, “In fact I recommend restyling the whole place.” Sam raises a curious eyebrow, but Dean gapes at him.  
  
“What? Why?” he scoffs  
  
“You have a mixture of conflicting styles.” Castiel says, “You want to bring everything together. It will help brand you.”  
  
“We have a style,” Dean insists, “It’s an… eclectic charm.”  
  
“It’s a mish-mash,” Castiel gives Dean a withering look, “And much of this stuff is falling apart, liks this table.” Castiel examines the table, chipping off a bit of chrome off the corner with a fingernail. A hand abruptly grabs his wrist and pulls it away from the table. Castiel looks up to see a wide-eyed Dean staring daggers at him.  
  
“Alright, fine,” Dean says softly, but his expression says that he is clearly placating Castiel so that he will move on.  
  
“You have fifties vintage here, farm-style chairs, Victorian wainscoting, and Art Deco sconces...” Castiel points out each item as he names them, “I don’t even know where to begin. I recommend you pull everything out and start from scratch.” Dean is stunned silent by Castiel’s assessment.  
  
“I don’t believe you!” Dean huffs, “Even if I were to agree to these changes, which I don’t, by the way, where on Earth do you expect us to get the money to pay for all this shit you recommend? And why the fuck should I even listen to you?” Crowley coughs and mutters “language” under his breath while Castiel just glares at Dean.  
  
“Your bakery’s participation in this is voluntary,” he states calmly, “You were made aware of what might happen when you registered for-”  
  
“Hey, I didn’t sign us up,” Dean shakes his head vigorously and throws a thumb over his shoulder toward Sam, “It was that one.”  
  
“You know, we do actually provide you with $5,000 in order to make any improvements,” Hannah volunteers hesitantly, but shrinks back as Dean levels an angry glare at her.  
  
“Dean,” Sam says, placing a hand on his arm. Dean shakes him off quickly.  
  
“Let me make you aware of something, Mr. Winchester, I was brought in here to assist because of my professional expertise.” Castiel offers cooly. His tone is even, but his clear blue eyes are narrowed in irritation, “Numerous restaurant and eating establishments have brought me in, and I have been able to save all of them from the brink of disaster where, unless I’m mistaken, you currently are.  
  
“You don’t have to take my advice, but neither do you have to keep this place open, which you won’t unless you make some severe changes to your kitchen, your cafe and your menu-”  
  
“Whoa,whoa,whoa, we are not touching the menu!” Dean declares finally. Castiel snorts humorlessly.  
  
“Your selection is far too limited and narrow. You don’t even have a coffee maker or an espresso machine-”  
  
“Oh, here we go,” Dean mutters sarcastically. Sam shoots him a frustrated look.  
  
“And these names!” Castiel reaches out and grabs the menu off the table, “‘Slutty Brownies’? “You’ve got to be kidding! Are you in high school? And what is ‘Bye Bye Miss American Pie’?” Castiel grimaces at the menu.  
  
“It’s, uh… a piece of apple pie topped with a slice of melted cheese… Cheddar cheese actually, not American, but it sounds better that way,” Sam explains. Castiel, Hannah and Crowley all look at Sam with a mixture of shock and disgust, “It’s… kind of our specialty?” He smiles half-heartedly and shrugs. Castiel closes his eyes and takes a calming deep breath.  
  
“That sounds disgusting and you should take it off your menu,” he says flatly.  
  
“Absolutely not!” Dean snarls, “Look here, I can deal with you bitching about my kitchen or calling the bakery a hot mess, but you are not touching our menu!”  
  
“Whoever thought this white-trash buffet was a good idea, needs to rethink their palette” Castiel snipes. Dean’s face goes blank before twisting in anger.  
  
“That’s it!” He yells, rushing to the door and throwing it open, “Everyone out! Now! I mean it!”  
  
“Dean, C’mon man,” Sam pleads, “Don’t be like this.”  
  
“No, Sam, you said if I got a bad feeling, I could shut it down,” Dean snarls, “Well, I've had a bad fucking feeling since the minute these pretentious assholes walked in and I am _fucking done_.”  
  
“Mr. Winchester,” Crowley approaches Dean calmly, “We do have a contract-”  
  
“I didn’t sign a damn thing!” Dean replies flippantly, “And I own this place, so get the hell out of my bakery before I call the cops on you for trespassing!” Crowley gives Dean a tight smile and ushers Castiel and a slightly frightened-looking Hannah out the front door. Sam watches through the front window as they hurriedly pile into their vehicles and speed away.  
  
Dean leans over the counter, gripping the edge until his knuckles turn white, trying to calm himself down. Sam stands there in stunned silence, glancing around the empty waiting area.  
  
“Dean-” he starts.  
  
“Don’t, Sam,” Dean mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face, “Just don’t.” He pulls himself off the counter and trudges back into the kitchen. The muffled sound of pots and pans being slammed onto the metal prep table echos through the building. Sam knows it’s best to stay out of Dean’s way until he’s baked three or four pies and calmed himself a bit.  
  
He sighs and slips off his chef’s jacket, throwing it behind the counter before turning and heading through the front door, flipping the “ _Yes, We’re Open_ ” sign to closed as he leaves.

 

* * *

 

Castiel gazes out across the horizon, gripping the balcony railing tight and taking a deep breath. He was quite pleased with the suite they had booked for their days here and is more than a little disappointed they will have barely an evening to enjoy it before flying out in the morning.  
  
Crowley’s voice drifts from the neighboring balcony, where he angrily barks into his cell phone, no doubt chewing out whatever assistant selected Winchester and Sons in the first place.  
  
Castiel snorts to himself. He has no opinion over today’s proceedings. It’s no skin off his nose if a failing business doesn’t want his help. His track record with saving places from closure speaks for itself and if they don’t want his expertise, so be it. He can take on another restaurant who won’t try to insult him for doing his damn job (and really, if they think calling Castiel a “pretentious asshole” amounts to an insult after all this time, they have another thing coming).  
  
There is a soft “flick” sound, and Castiel looks over to see Crowley lighting a cigarette, shooting him a “ _don’t tell the wife_ ” look as he does. Castiel takes the opportunity to escape the smoke and heads back through the balcony doors into the suite.  
  
Hannah is positioned on one of the bed, back against the headboard.The TV is set on CNN, volume low, but she isn’t paying attention. Castiel is surprised to find Hannah, rather than tapping away on her tablet, engrossed in the Winchester and Sons’ file folder, the contents spread around her on the bed. Her face is pinched in concentration as she reads over a clipping.  
  
Castiel flops back onto the other bed, toeing off his shoes and rubbing at his eyes.  
  
“Did you read this?” Hannah mumbles.  
  
“Hmm?” he props himself up on his elbows and looks at her.  
  
“Did you read this stuff?” Hannah asks again, holding up a newspaper clipping.  
  
“About the Winchesters?” Castiel ask, shrugging. “Yeah.”  
  
“Are you sure?” She glances at him seriously. Castiel sits up.  
  
“Yes,” He says, furrowing his brow, “What is this about?”  
  
“Did you know they had a fire?” She swings her legs off the bed and offers the clipping in Castiel’s direction.  
  
“Yeah, but it was like 20 years ago right?” Castiel gives her a condescending look, “Wasn’t their father running the place then?”  
  
“Did you know that their mother was killed in the fire?” Hannah raises an eyebrow. Castiel snatches the article, his expression faltering as he reads.  
  
“They lost almost everything,” Hannah explains, “That was an interview in the Sun Times when they reopened a year later. Apparently, Papa Winchester tried to incorporate as much as he could from his late wife’s “dream design.” He also mentions how what little they could save they integrated into the new place, including the sconces, the wainscotting-”  
  
“And the tables.” Castiel finishes sadly. He scrubs a hand over his faces and groans, “It was her menu wasn’t it?”  
  
“It would explain why he went nuclear when you said to change it,” Hannah offers.  
  
“And you think I should apologize?” Castiel infers.  
  
“I think you hit a nerve,” She says, standing from the bed and walking to the mini bar, grabbing a $15 bottle of water, “and, if nothing else, you need to save a little face.” Castiel sighs heavily, letting his shoulders slump forward.  
  
“You don’t have to listen to me,” Hannah shrugs slightly, dropping down next to Castiel, “but I do believe that if you apologize soon, we might be able to salvage this clusterfuck and shoot ourselves a show.”  
  
“Crowley would probably love it,” Castiel admitted, “Being kicked out only to be brought back in and turn it around.”  
  
“See, you get it!” Hannah elbows him lightly. Castiel snorts and checks his watch. It’s 7:30. No doubt the place is closed already, but he might be able to get there in the morning. He looks up and tips his chin toward the folder on the opposite bed.  
  
“What time does it say they get there in the morning?” He asks.

 

* * *

 

Dean carefully scrapes the side of the container as he adds flour and water to his starter.  _Feed the bitch or it’ll die_  his father’s voice echoes in his head. 15 years of working in the bakery, he could probably feed starter in his sleep, which, on some early morning openings, he probably has.  
  
He covers the container and places it on the shelf behind him, wondering if this starter will outlive the bakery. He scratches at his forehead and turns to grab a towel, only to startle when he sees Castiel Novak standing in the back doorway.  
  
“Jesus Fuck!” Dean shouts, jumping backwards and knocking a stack of baking trays off the prep table.  
  
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” Castiel says, “The door was open.”  
  
“Well, that doesn’t give you permission to scare the living shit out of me at the asscrack of dawn,” Dean gripes, clutching at his chest,  
  
“Why are you here? Came to criticize my bread-making skills?”  
  
“I came to apologize,” Castiel states, gazing down at his feet. Dean stares at him seriously for a moment.  
  
“Well, not accepted,” He says with an apathetic shrug. He turns away, wiping his hands gruffly, “Now get the hell off of my property before I call the cops on-”  
  
“I read about the fire,” Castiel interrupts. Dean looks up at him, brow furrowed. “I was given your folder a few days ago. I’ll admit I didn’t read it in depth. I had no idea..” Castiel trails off and Dean looks away despondently. “I never meant to be so insensitive about your loss.” Dean gives him a sad smile.  
  
“This place is all she ever wanted,” he mumbles, “Well, besides Sam and me and my dad, but this bakery was her dream.” Dean sighs, picking at a stray thread on his chefs jacket, “When the fire happened, we just… we just lost so much. We wanted to keep as much of her dream alive as possible, every detail.” Castiel takes a step forward.  
  
“I understand,” Castiel says, “and I still want to help you guys out. We don’t have to change anything you don’t want to.” Dean raises a curious eyebrow.  
  
“We keep the eclectic charm?”  
  
“You can have as much kitschy charm as you want.”  
  
“And the menu stays the same?” He asks.  
  
“I may suggest additions, but we won’t take anything off,” Castiel promises, “I only ask that you give me a chance, take some of my ideas into consideration. I can see that you already have,” He indicates around the kitchen, “You rearranged the kitchen to be more efficient.” Dean glances around the room and shrugs non-committedly.  
  
“Yeah, well…” Dean mumbles, “Don’t pat yourself on the back too much. I would’ve thought of it myself eventually.” Castiel smiles but doesn’t contradict him.  
  
“What if you start to get onto something I don’t want changed?” Dean asks, crossing his arms and leaning back against the prep table. Castiel thinks for a moment.  
  
“What if we had some sort of code word?” He offers.  
  
“Code word?” Dean asks, “Like a safe word?”  
  
“If that’s how you’d like to think of it, sure,” Castiel laughs lightly, “Just a way to tell me to tread lightly.” Dean nods in agreement and thinks for a moment.  
  
“How about ‘Thunderstruck’?” He asks.  
  
“‘Thunderstruck’?” Castiel looks at Dean skeptically.  
  
“Yeah, ‘Thunderstruck’.” Dean repeats, “I say it, you back off.”  
  
“Agreed,” Castiel offers his hand, which Dean shakes.  
  
“I do have one request, though,” Dean says.  
  
“What?” Castiel asks, a smile quirking at the edge of his mouth. Dean steps away and walks through the swinging door to the front. He returns a moment later with three-quarters of an apple pie, which he sets on the prep table. He then goes to the walk-in cooler and emerges a second later with a block of cheese. Castiel watches with concern as Dean cuts a slice of pie, depositing it carefully onto a plate. He then slices a thick cut of cheese, dropping it onto the top of the pie before placing the plate in the warm oven.  
  
“You have to try our specialty,” Dean says, smirking. Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but Dean cuts him off. “Do it, or the deal’s off.” Castiel sighs and nods.  
  
“Fine,” he mutters. Dean grins triumphantly and slips on a glove, pulling the warm plate from the oven. The cheese is melted and bubbly on top of the pie, tantalizingly dripping over the edge. Dean offers a fork in Castiel’s direction. He takes it and without pretense digs into the pie, popping a generous bite into his mouth and chewing.  
  
Dean watches him carefully and he chews, a look of concentration etched on his face.  
  
“So?” Dean asks cautiously. The corners of Castiel’s mouth curl up slightly.  
  
“S’good,” he says, still chewing, “Very good. Much better than expected.” Dean’s face breaks out into a pleased grin and Castiel can’t help smiling back reflexively.  
  
“See? Our menu isn’t all bad.” Dean points out.  
  
“I’m still not sure if the name Slutty Brownies is entirely appropriate,” Castiel snorts, giving Dean a dubious look, “Did your mom come up with that name?”  
  
“She called them Better Than Sex brownies,” Dean admits, and Castiel genuinely laughs in response, “Hey, where are the cameras for this? I thought they were supposed to follow you everywhere?” Dean glances around suspiciously.  
  
“I felt it was better to do this off the record,” Castiel says, taking another bite, “An exercise in trust.”  
  
“And if it all went to pot, it would be your shining word against mine.” Dean offers sarcastically.  
  
“No, no, I just wanted to show you I was on the level,” Castiel says, “Talk to you like a fellow chef, not a TV host.” Dean makes an impressed little noise, as if he hadn’t been expecting such admirable behavior from someone who regularly yells at young cooks about undercooked chicken.  
  
“Crowley will be heartbroken though, I’m sure,” Castiel continues, “This would have probably made for excellent TV.” Dean tips his head and considers him carefully.  
  
“Well, I appreciate the effort to make us more than just fodder for ratings,” he says. Castiel shrugs and looks away shyly.  
  
“You’re welcome, Dean,” He plucks his phone from his pocket and frowns at the time, “Speaking of Crowley, I ought to get back before he notices I’m missing. I think Hannah can only distract him for so long.”’ Dean walks Castiel to the back door and waves him off as he slips behind the wheel of the black Audi rental.  
  
As he drives away, Dean sighs heavily. He should call Sam and let him know they were back on the show. He’ll admit that the place could probably could use a fresh coat of paint and some repairs. The $5,000 they were offering was pretty tempting and the thought of a pair of industrial stoves in his kitchen made Dean a bit giddy with excitement.  
  
He pops a cassette into the ancient boombox on the back shelf and hums along as Iron Maiden blares from the speakers. He returns the cheese to the cooler and begins gathering ingredients for berries and cream coffee cake.  
  
 _We’ll make this place awesome, Mom_ , he thinks to himself,  _Just you wait!_


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Castiel arrives with a full crew in tow. Dean is more than a bit alarmed by the number of people now milling around outside of his business at 4 am on a Thursday morning, feeling like he was lured into a false sense of security with only the cameraman and sound tech before.  
  
“Cas?” He says carefully, approaching a dishevelled Castiel, dressed strangely casual in sweatpants and a hoodie, “Who are all these people?” Cas turns to Dean and gives him a tired but reassuring smile.  
  
“Hair, Make-up, a couple light techs…” he offers pointing out each one.  
  
“Dude, I can’t have 20 people standing around my bakery all day,” Dean huffs.  
  
“They won’t be anywhere near the bakery,” Castiel says, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder, “We commandeering the lot over there,” He waves his hand vaguely behind Dean and he can guess that he’s referring to the empty dental suites, “When we shoot, it’ll just be the small crew like we had a couple days ago. Crowley does like everyone to look their best on camera, though.” Dean give him a concerned look at Castiel direct’s him to RV which is acting as hair and make up.  
  
30 minutes later and Dean is officially a painted whore. He emerges from the trailer, primped and powdered, crossing the street to his bakery. He grumbles to himself about being an hour late as he enters through the kitchen, grabbing his chef’s jacket off the hook and throwing it on over his t shirt. Castiel is already there, looking weirdly dashing in a plain oxford shirt and jeans, talking quietly with Hannah.  
  
“Ah, look who finally arrived,” Crowley says, clapping his hands together, “C’mon, let’s get started.”

 

* * *

 

The morning goes better than expected. Dean goes about his normal routine feeding the starter, making and baking pastries for the first rush and making the dough that he prepped the night before into donuts. Castiel stands aside, watching quietly, occasionally interjecting with advice and tips. Dean was expecting a lot of eye-rolling on Castiel’s part, like he had in most other episodes (Dean might have watched a few on Netflix, so what?), but for the most part, Castiel’s poker face doesn’t waiver.  
  
Not until Sam arrives at 6:30 am and the shop bursts to life. The crowd isn’t large, not compared to neighboring bakeries in the area, but it still has Dean running around frantically. At one point, he nearly drops a tray of donuts pulled straight from the oven when Sam bolts unexpectedly through the swinging door. Castiel and his crew keep to the side, carefully observing and making notes while the camera man sticks to the brothers like glue, much to Dean’s annoyance.  
  
“Castiel!” Dean yells out as he places two pans of pastries in the oven, “If you don’t get this guy off my ass right now, I’m gonna go Sweeney Todd up in here!” The camera operator goes white and takes a step back, next to a smirking Castiel. He tips his head to the side, leading everyone out of the kitchen and out of Dean’s way.  
  
In front, Sam cheerfully rings up a customer and bids them goodbye.  
  
“Busy day?” Castiel asks. Sam snorts and shakes his head.  
  
“We’ll be lucky to break even when we factor in utilities,” he sighs. Castiel frowns in confusion.  
  
“The way Dean was running around, I would have expected a good profit today.” He says. Sam shakes his head and wipes down the counter.  
  
“Dean wouldn’t be so busy, but he keeps trying to expand the menu.” Sam plops down onto a nearby stool and looks at Castiel, “Our mom had this… book, this journal full of recipes, Items she dreamed of making and selling, and Dean is determined to do that. He thinks that’s the key more customers.”  
  
“Is it working?” Castiel asks, earning a sarcastic guffaw from Sam and a sweeping gesture to the empty room, “So he’s wasting money then?” Sam shakes his head unexpectedly.  
  
“Yeah, sort of,” Sam admits quietly, “I mean, everything’s great. Dean’s very good at what he does, but…” Sam trails off as he runs his hands through his hair.  
  
“What?” Castiel asks. He sees Crowley behind the sound guy, making motions with his hands to coax the information out of Sam.  
  
“I just wish he’d slow down,” Sam finally huffs out, “He never stops and it’s hurting the business. Dean get here at 4:30 in the morning and he’s here all day. I leave at 8 and every night, he’s still working when I walk out the door.” Sam throws up his hands in exasperation. Castiel leans against the counter and considers Sam.  
  
“He’s here 16 hours?”  
  
“At least,” Sam replies.  
  
“How many days a week are you open?” Cas asks, mentally doing the math.  
  
“Six, but he’s here most Mondays too,” Sam exhales heavily and leans back against the wall, “He’s so focused on the big picture, that he can’t see all the little mistakes he’s making. Like earlier when he nearly dropped a pan… That happens at least twice a week and usually we lose a batch.” Castiel frowns deeply.  
  
“He makes dumb mistakes, like mixing up his salt and sugar or forgetting an ingredient. I’ve seen him add evaporated milk when a recipe called for sweetened condensed milk.”  
  
“So he’s careless?” Castiel concludes, crossing his arms over his chest.  
  
“He’s exhausted!” Sam insists, careful to keep his voice down, “I try to help as much as I can, as much as he’ll let me, but I have a wife at home and a life and even if I were to drag him out of here when I leave, he’s got his own set of keys. He’d come back.” Sam looks thoroughly drained by his confession, but Crowley, standing just a few feet behind him, looks entirely gleeful.  
  
“Have you thought about hiring more staff?” Castiel ask.  
  
“We had a few for awhile, uh, Gordon and Krissy.” Sam offers, “Krissy left for college a year ago and Gordon… Gordon was a long-time employee, friend of our dad’s. One day, we figured out that he was dipping into the till.” Castiel’s brows fly toward his hairline but he doesn’t say anything.  
  
“After that Dean figured it was better if we just kept it in the family, so to speak,” Sam continues, shaking his head, “I guess it’s for the best. It had been a struggle to pay them anyway.”  
  
“You said you had someone come in and work the counter occasionally?” Castiel asks, trying to get a clear picture of the situation.  
  
“Yeah, Jo.” Sam says, standing as the bell signaling the front door opening tingles. “She’s like a little sister to us. We pay her in donuts.”  
  
“Donuts?” Castiel repeats, very confused.  
  
“Excuse me, I have to take care of this customer.” Sam greets the person approaching the counter while Castiel takes the chance to slip back into to the kitchen. Crowley and the crew are occupied getting filler shots of the business so this may be his chance to talk to Dean before he’s back on camera.  
  
Dean seems a great deal less frantic now than before. A large swath of dough is spread out over the prep table and Dean is carefully coating it in soften butter with a pastry brush like a painter covering a canvas.  
  
“Cinnamon Rolls?” Castiel guesses. Dean looks up, his face lighting up slightly when he sees Castiel.  
  
“Not just cinnamon rolls,” Dean replies deviously, “Hot chocolate rolls.” Castiel makes a surprised noise and steps closer to see what Dean is doing. A prep bowl sits to his right, filled with brownish, spicy smelling powder.  
  
“When I was a kid, my mom used to make hot chocolate with marshmallows and buttered toast.” Dean explains, “We’d let the marshmallows melt into the cocoa and then dip the toast in it.” Castiel grimaces.  
  
“You’re mother must’ve really loved sweet and savory combinations,” He says, remembering the cheese and apple pie concoction. Dean chuckles and puts down the pastry brush.  
  
“That she did,” He agrees, “but this is actually my concoction.” He holds the prep bowl in Castiel’s direction. He takes a deep sniff of the aromatic mixture.  
  
“Chocolate and cinnamon,” Castiel says flatly.  
  
“Also orange zest and just the barest pinch of cayenne,” Dean adds, “The mixture is one part my own cocoa mixture, one part brown sugar and one part cinnamon.” He grabs a spoon off a nearby rack and takes up a heaping spoonful, gingerly shaking it over the buttered dough. The heady sweet scent fills the air and Castiel can’t help smiling as he inhales it deeply.  
  
“After they’re done,” Dean continues, “rather than cover them with cream cheese frosting, I top them with a toasted marshmallow cream.”  
  
“Good Lord! How on Earth do you and Sam not weigh 500 pounds each?” Castiel chides. Dean laughs as he shakes the last spoonful of powder over the dough, spreading it evenly with the back of the spoon.  
  
“Well, we don’t eat it,” He counters, “I mean, Sam’s not too big on sweets anyway, never has been, and me… Well, I spend all day around this stuff, I’m practically inhaling sugar. At the end of the day, it’s pretty much the last thing I want.” Dean places the bowl back on the table. He pinches a bit of flour out of a small ramekin at the corner of the table, dusting his hands, before beginning to roll the dough lengthwise.  
  
Castiel watches him with a quiet fascination.  
  
“Dean, tell me something,” Castiel starts, looking at him curiously, “How many hours do you work a day? On average?” Dean shrugs, continuing to carefully roll the dough into something resembling a log.  
  
“Usually around 10 hours,” he offers, “but that’s pretty normal for a small business owner.” Castiel frowns deeply.  
  
“Sam says that you get here at 4:30 in the morning and you’re still here when he leaves at 8 in the evening,” he points out, “That’s a lot more than 10 hours.” Dean laughs heartily.  
  
“Sam is exaggerating,” he says, glancing around the kitchen for a moment before grabbing a roll of unwaxed dental floss off the shelf, “I may have worked a little longer a few days-”  
  
“Six-plus hours is more than ‘a little longer,’” Castiel interrupts, “He also says you come in on your off day as well.” Dean nods and shrugs. He carefully clips a strand of floss and wraps it around the roll, about two inches in.  
  
“That’s part of owning a business,” Dean huffs, anger beginning to surface in his voice, “We need to do whatever possible to keep us running.”  
  
“What about hiring some help?” Castiel offers. Dean raises his head quickly, giving him an incredulous look.  
  
“With what money?” Dean hisses, “We can’t pay everyone in baked goods, Cas! And I’ve learned the hard way that good help, help you can  _trust_ , is impossible to find!” Even in his anger, Dean still has a light touch, pulling the end of the floss carefully as they cut through the dough, a perfect spiraled roll the result.  
  
“Sam mentioned your issues with employee theft,” Cas mutters. Dean purses his lips as he lines a tray with parchment paper.  
  
“Yeah, Gordon,” Dean sighs, continuing to cut rolls, “The worst part about that is that he’d been here for years. We have no idea how long he’d been doing it. Maybe thousands of dollars lost.” Dean turns to Castiel.  
  
“Look, I know I work a lot, but what other choice do we have?” Dean shrugs in concession, “Nothing is going to get better if I stop.” He continues to place the rolls in perfect rows in the tray.  
  
“Sam also said that you have been making mistakes more lately,” Castiel says seriously. Dean groans and looks at the ceiling.  
  
“Why? Because I drop things sometimes? Or a batch or a pie burns?” He snaps sarcastically, “Yeah, I know Sam thinks he’s Mr. Perfect, but he has just as many accidents in the kitchen as I do. Do you know he cut his hand open on a mandolin a few weeks ago?” Castiel wants to interject, but at that moment Crowley’s head pops through the swinging door.  
  
“What the bloody hell are you doing back here? Without a camera much less?” He barks, “Get your asses out front  _right now_!”  
  
“In a minute!” Dean yells back, finishing the rolls and placing the tray in the oven. He sets the timer and follows Castiel out to the front counter.  


* * *

  
  
They spend the next hour detailing all the proposed changes, with Castiel displaying each intricately-made design for Sam and Dean on the ever-present tablet. Sam seems to like everything, nodding and making suitable agreeable noises, but Dean is less assertive of the changes.  
  
“What we’re proposing is working with the… eccentric nature of the bakery, rather than scrapping everything,” Castiel explains. He swipes to the next slide, “We thought the dark walnut of the wainscotting was nice and matched very well with the display case. If you replaced the formica counter with a nice wood one-”  
  
“Wood?!” Dean interupts, “Won’t the upkeep on that be insane?”  
  
“Actually, they have some wood countertops that are treated to resist water and other damage.” Castiel counters, “Plus it would be much less expensive than a granite or slate one would be.” Dean nods in agreement and he might be imagining it, but a small, pleased smile curls at the corners of Castiel’s mouth. They move through the room, Castiel pointing out how items can be repurposed or repainted to fit the look of the shop. When they come to the cracked and chipped table near the window, Castiel glances at the brothers doubtfully.  
  
“This is one item I struggled with and I just can’t see how we can incorporate it into everything,” He taps the tops of the table and Dean tenses slightly.  
  
“I don’t see what you mean,” Dean says slowly, “If it’s the color, it can just be repainted, right?” Castiel gives Dean a pained look.  
  
“It’s not really meant to be painted,” Castiel says, knocking on the top of it, “It’s chrome and formica. I mean, even if it weren’t… lime green, it would still stick out like a sore thumb against all the wood and the…” Castiel takes a deep breath as he tries to find the word,  
  
“Masculine feel of the place. I’m afraid this table has to-”  
  
“Y’know, Cas,” Dean quickly cuts him off, “The thought of losing the table has me a little thunderstruck.” Castiel’s claps shut. Dean’s mouth is a hard line, but his eyes are silently pleading.  
  
“Let’s put a pin in this,” Castiel stammers out, turning his attention to the windows, “Now, these curtains…” Castiel continues in his assessment as Crowley glares daggers at him and the Winchesters from his spot near the counter.  


* * *

  
  
“See!” Sam gushes excitedly as he wiped down the prep table, “See! What did I tell you? Was that so bad?” He is beaming from ear to ear and Dean can admit his enthusiasm was infectious. The crew had left an hour before closing and the time alone gave Sam and Dean a chance to catch up on the routine cleaning that had slacked on during filming. Sam picks up stray utensils and hangs them against the metallic rail above the prep area.  
  
“Yeah, yeah Sammy, don’t get cocky about it,” Dean laughs, scrubbing the stove. Despite the rocky start, having Castiel and his crew here had been a boon. Castiel wasn’t as much of a hardass as Dean had expected and his advice really was on-point. Dean only had to utilize the safeword maybe three times. All in all, today had gone far better than expected.  
  
“Castiel was a lot nicer than I thought he would be,” Sam mentions, dropping the rag into the nearby laundry basket.  
  
“Yeah, he seems alright,” Dean mutters, focusing his attention on a stubborn spot where caramelized sugar had cemented itself to the stovetop.  
  
“I mean, on the show he’s so… aloof and unapproachable, y’know?” Sam continues, “But in person, he’s just… normal.” Dean looks up at his brother.  
  
“I guess,” Dean offers absently.  
  
“He seems to like you,” Sam says. Dean jerks his head up and stares at Sam.  
  
“What? What are you talking about?”  
  
“Well, I mean usually the restaurant owner barely gets any say in the changes made. Castiel is very much ‘my way or the highway,’” Sam explains, making a stiff gesture with his hands, “But he was actually listening to your ideas, like when you said you wanted an oven/range combo rather than two baker’s ovens or the thing with the table-”  
  
“He just recognizes genius, Sammy,” Dean jokes, “Clearly great minds and all that nonsense.”  
  
“No, it’s not that,” Sam mumbles, “He like really... focuses in on you, like he’s actually listening to you and considering what you are saying. He treats you like… I don’t know, an equal.”  
  
“Does that upset you or something?” Dean asks with a sarcastic tone.  
  
“I don’t know,” Sam shrugs, “He always seems so… otherworldly on TV and come to find out he’s just a regular guy like us. It kind of destroys the mystique, don’t you think?” Sam pulls a face and Dean can’t help but laugh at his almost-forlorn expression.  
  
“Oh, poor Sammy. The asshole of TV is actually a nice guy. The illusion has been destroyed. Woe is him!” Sam shoots him his best condescending glare (or “bitch face”, as Dean as dubbed them) and heads through the swinging door to the front to count out the cash drawer.  
  
Dean shakes his head warmly. He doesn’t understand what the big deal is. So Cas is less Simon Cowell and more Jeff Probst? Dean finds is refreshing. He wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead and unceremoniously drops the rag in the laundry basket. He’ll deal with the stove tomorrow.  
  
Something Sam said comes to mind: “ _He seems to like you_.” He can’t help preening a little at that thought. Dean may not have a fancy culinary degree or much than a high school diploma, but he knows his business and he knows how to bake. He can take a little pride in the fact that’s he’s earned Castiel’s respect. Not that he wouldn’t mind earning Cas’ admiration in other areas, as well.  
  
Hey, Dean is a red-blooded, American man; he knows what he likes. He knows he can’t be the first person to have been a caught off-guard by Castiel’s piercing blue stare or the way his lips curl into just a hint of a smile when he finds something amusing. Dean switches off the light and heads out the back door, laughing to himself.  
So he has a bit of a crush. So what?  


* * *

  
  
“Castiel, What the Hell do you think you’re doing?” Crowley growls from the doorway of the suite. Castiel glances at him from his spot laid out across the bed. His bored expression doesn’t change, but he does raise an eyebrow.  
  
“What are yelling about, Crowley?” Castiel asks, sitting up. Crowley closes the door behind him, walking slowly into the room.  
  
“Castiel, when I selected you for this production, it was in part due to your reputation as a hardass,” Crowley says with an unusual calmness to his voice, “Not so you could let pretty-boy bakers walk all over you!” His voice gains an edge of fierceness at the end. He gives Castiel a heated glare, receiving only a blank look in response.  
  
“What are you talking about?” Castiel asks, genuinely confused.  
  
“You using this as an opportunity to flirt with Chef Zoolander!” Crowley barks, “You’ve been practically indulgent with the Winchesters! Every issue and change we’d planned has been shut down. By You!”  
  
“That is not true!” Castiel argues, rising to his feet.  
  
“Isn’t it?” Crowley asks mockingly, “ _You’re listening to them_ , Castiel!”  
  
“And they’re listening to us!” Castiel counters, “Have we ever had owners that weren’t fighting us tooth and nail?”  
  
“That’s the point, Castiel! Where’s the drama? Where’s the tension? Where’s the...” Crowley waves his hand in the air, trying to find the word, “ _Dun-Dun-Duh_!” Castiel rolls his eyes and walk to the mini bar to grab a bottle of water.  
  
“We got kicked out after 20 minutes on the first day,” Castiel sighs, “What more do you want?” Crowley gives him a withering look.  
  
“Castiel, let me explain something to you,” Crowley says calmly, “Shows like this follow a particular formula, a story arc. You can’t mess with it. It… confuses the audience. You need to feed them something familiar or they’ll switch channels. We lose viewers, we lose sponsors. The network cancels and then you are out of a job. Understood?” Castiel rolls his eyes but nods.  
  
“You can’t just start with high tension and then have it fizzle out throughout the rest of the episode,” Crowley continues, “I can only do so much creative editing and dramatic close-ups in post!”  
  
“What do you want me to do?” Castiel asks, exasperated.  
  
“Look, I don’t care, just be your self,” Crowley instructs, “Your  _normal_ self, with the yelling and the eye-rolling. Yes, just like that.” The door clicks open and Hannah enters, arms loaded with brown take-out bags.  
  
“They didn’t have the Penne a la Norma this time, so I got you the-” She stops short when she notices Crowley standing next to Castiel, “Oh, hello Crowley. I didn’t realize you’d be here for dinner. I would’ve gotten your order.”  
  
“No, no, that’s fine,” Crowley mumbles, slipping his coat on and walking toward the door, “I have a teleconference with head of programming. You two have a good night.” He looks pointedly at Castiel, “Consider what I said.” The door slams closed behind him. Castiel sighs and turns to where Hannah is unloading plastic containers onto the table. He scowls to himself, lost in a thought.  
  
“They better have packed extra olive oil or there will be hell to pay,” Hannah mumbles absently.  
  
“Hannah,” Castiel starts, “Do you think I was different today?”  
  
“Different how?” She asks, not looking up from the bag.  
  
“Crowley felt I was… permissive with the Winchesters today,” he says, “What do you think?” Hannah glances at him for a moment before looking away and busying herself opening containers.  
  
“Well?” Castiel asks, waiting for a response. She exhales heavily and stops what she’s doing.  
  
“You were a bit more… lenient than you usually are.” Hannah admits.  
  
“How?” Castiel asks, legitimately dumbfounded by this. Hannah hands him a container full of pasta.  
  
“I don’t know, Castiel. It’s just little things,” she says, “The first day, you were so gung ho about the menu but you haven’t even mentioned it once.”  
  
“We’re getting to that tomorrow,” he interjects.  
  
“You had no arguments when it came to the paint, and I know that wasn’t the palette you liked,” Hannah continues, sitting down, “Hell, you were actually apologetic when you mentioned throwing out the table! I’ve never seen you do that before.” She chuckles to herself as spins her fork in her linguini.  
  
“Well, you were the one who said go easy on them,” Castiel sets his container opposite Hannah and sits, “Remember? Sentimentality?”  
  
“I said lighten up, not back down completely,” Hannah counters, “Is this because Dean Winchester is attractive?” Castiel goes stock still, fork held at his mouth about to take a bite.  
  
“What?” He says, his voice an octave higher than intended.  
  
“I mean normally we deal with middle-aged restaurant owners.” Hannah points out, “How often are we going to have an owner that could double as a male model?” Castiel frowns deeply.  
  
“It has nothing to do with Dean Winchester’s level of attractiveness,” Castiel snaps vehemently.  
  
“But you do find him attractive?” Hannah asks, unable to hide a cheeky smile. Castiel sighs heavily and closes his eyes.  
  
“Hannah,” He warns softly.  
  
“Because it’s alright if you do,” Hannah continues, “I mean, his face is structurally perfect.”  
  
“Hannah.”  
  
“And even if he’s not into guys, there’s no harm in looking.”  
  
“Hannah!” Castiel exclaims. Hannah glances at him with a knowing smirk and Castiel is sure him blush is radiating down to his toes.  
  
“I’ll drop it,” she says, “But just think about how you’re acting tomorrow.” Castiel shakes his head and stabs his fork into his pasta for another bite.  


* * *

  
  
The morning rush had just slowed when Crowley pulls Dean to the side.  
  
“Dean, my boy, come with me,” He wraps an arm around Dean’s shoulder, pulling him away from the cornbread pie crust he was about to roll out, “We need to do some confessionals.”  
  
“What?” Dean asks, annoyed.  
  
“Those talking head things where you tell the camera what you really think,” Crowley explains. They move through the kitchen and out the back door.  
  
“We’re doing it is the loading area?” Dean asks, glancing around at the trash cans and the too-high grass.  
  
“We’ve set up a spot at the side of the building,” Crowley directs Dean around to where Hannah is setting up a pair of folding chairs across from one another and a tripod. Hannah reaches for Dean’s shoulder, spinning him around and checking the microphone pack hooked to his hip.  
  
“Ready to go?” Crowley asks her. She nods stiffly and steps back, turning on the camera, “Why don’t you take a seat Dean.” He cautiously sits downs, looking at both Hannah and Dean warily.  
  
“What kind of questions are you going to ask?” he inquires.  
  
“Just what you think so far, your first impressions or Castiel, of his methods,” Crowley lists off each item, “That sort of thing. Hannah Dear, why don’t you get Sam ready? We should only take about 15 minutes.” Hannah nods and hurries off around the to the front of the bakery. Crowley checks the shot in the viewfinder and sits in the chair opposite Dean. He picks up the holy tablet where Hannah had left it and switches it on.  
  
“So Dean,” Crowley says as he glances at the tablet, “What were your thoughts when you found out your brother volunteered Winchester and Sons for Kitchen Overhaul?” Dean considers the question before answering.  
  
“I was pissed, I mean-”  
  
“Can I stop you?” Crowley interrupts, “Would you mind answering in present tense? These will be cut throughout the episode.” Dean nods slightly.  
  
“Uh, ok… I’m pissed.” Dean says, “This bakery is our family. It was our mom’s dream and to let some… strangers come in and change everything… It feels like a slight against her.” Crowley nods in understanding.  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
“It really sucks he did it without my knowledge,” Dean says, “He might be part owner but he should’ve discussed it with me first.” Crowley nods and glances at the tablet again.  
  
“So when you first met Castiel, what was your impression of him?”  
  
“Emotionless asshole,” Dean says flatly, earning a soft chuckle from the other man.  
  
“Let’s try to watch our language, alright Dean?” Crowley replies, “Can you extrapolate on that? Your impression of Castiel?” Dean shrugs.  
  
“He just comes in here, doesn’t say a word at first and then rattles off all of these changes,” Dean scratches at the back of his head,  
  
“It feels kind of cold, ok? I mean, I see he’s not really like that now-”  
  
“We’ll get there in a minute,” Crowley instructs. They go through the events of the first three days, Dean giving his thoughts on each aspect.  
  
“You and Castiel seem to be getting along now,” Crowley says, “You’ve really done a 180, haven’t you?” Dean straightens up in his seat and shrugs absently.  
  
“I don’t know,” Dean mutters, “He’s starting to make sense, y’know? Like I understand what he means about moving around the kitchen. It is more efficient, I can see that.” Crowley nods once and looks at the tablet.  
  
“Anything else?” He looks at Dean, raising a curious eyebrow.  
  
“I like the idea of a wood countertop,” Dean grins, “It’ll look really sharp. Really… authentic, you know what I mean?” Crowley laughs to himself and nods.  
  
“Yes, I believe I do,” he mumbles, making a notes of something on the tablet, “So you like Castiel’s decisions, then?”  
  
“Yeah, sure.” Dean replies, “Guy’s smart.”  
  
“Even his recommendation that you step away from the business?” Dean’s eye go wide and he feels like the floor has just dropped out from underneath him.  
  
“What did you say?” he murmurs.  
  
“Castiel made a recommendation that you step away from the business,” Crowley says.  
  
“To who?” Dean scoffs.  
  
“You brother,” he answers, “Plus, we have a running tally throughout the show of the recommended changes so that when we come back in six months we can see if you followed the advice.” Dean blinks slowly. He can feel a ball of anger forming in his gut like a toxic pearl.  
  
“He said I should step back?” Dean asks in utter disbelief, “I should give up the business I’ve been working in since grade school?”  
  
“I guess you haven’t been told about it yet?” Crowley says, watching Dean warily. Dean jumps to his feet, ripping off the microphone and battery pack and throwing them at Crowley.  
  
“I’m done,” he says, walking away.  
  
“We have a few more questions, Dean” Crowley call after him.  
  
“I don’t care,” Dean yells out. He stalks around the building to the back door. As soon as he’s back inside the kitchen, he grabs a rolling pin and begins to vent his aggression into roughly rolling out corn bread crust. He doesn’t care if it will make the crust tough, he’s pissed.  
  
Crowley watches him tromp out of sight. His look of concern only marred by the hint of a smirk twisting at his lip.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s a half an hour before anyone notices Dean is not with the rest of the crew in the front of the shop. Castiel ducks his head into the kitchen and finds him head down, forcefully chopping pecans.  
  
“Dean,” Castiel calls out over the sound of a knife repeatedly hitting the cutting board. Dean doesn’t acknowledge him but continues to work, laser-focused on his task.  
  
“Dean!” Castiel yells, stepping through the door. The knife stills and Dean glances at Castiel from the corner of his eye.  
  
“What?” he mutters coolly.  
  
“We need you out front,” Castiel says.  
  
“I’m busy,” Dean responds flatly, grasping the handle of his knife once more.  
  
“Yeah, well there are no cameras back here and we need you for-”  
  
“I said I’m fucking busy!” Dean snaps, heading turning toward Castiel. His easy expression drops at the hard look in Dean’s eyes and he wonders what prompted it. “We have a pre-order of three mocha pecan pies for tomorrow. I need to get started on them now because you and your staff have been hijacking all of my time.”  
  
“This will only take a few minutes,” Castiel replies carefully, “Then you can get back to work.”  
  
“I don’t have a few minutes. I barely have time to piss during the day.” Dean says lowly, “I thought that was made clear to you? Or is that just something else to use against me?”  
  
Castiel licks at his lips. The tension in the air is palpable, even worse than it had been at their arrival. He doesn’t understand why Dean is suddenly so upset but he finds it exceedingly irritating. He has been bending over backwards for this man and  _this_ is the thanks he gets? Childish Petulance?  
  
“Dean,” Castiel begins, attempting to maintain his composure. “What is the deal-” He is cut off as Sam swings open the door.  
  
“Dean there you are!” He says, “We need you out here to go over the menu! C’mon!” Dean rolls his eyes, but puts down his chopping knife and follows Sam through the door. Castiel stands in the kitchen alone for a moment, confused and angry, before following the brothers.

Dean grimaces at the sight of a large white board on an easel sitting in the middle of the floor, every menu offering written down the side. He mutters something sarcastic under his breath about “professionalism” as Castiel approaches the board. He glimpses Crowley, who throws him a signal to begin.  
  
“We have here every menu item you have regularly listed,” Castiel says, gesturing to one side of the board “plus the items that we’ve noticed that you’ve made in our time here that aren’t on your menu.” he gestures to the opposite side where nearly the same number of dishes and items are listed.  
  
“They’re specials,” Dean says flatly, crossing his arms in front of him.  
  
“Yes, but it seems like a waste of assets to make so many,” Castiel replies, “I mean, don’t you see how 15 off-menu items might be a bit much?”  
“They sold,” Dean challenges calmly, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“Well, then why not cut some of the other items off the menu that don’t sell.” Castiel swipes on the tablet and goes over the sales numbers from the day previous, “I mean, the apple pie doesn’t-”  
  
“Thunderstruck!” Dean says loudly. All heads turn to Dean. His expression is cold, his mouth a hard line.  
  
“Dean,” Castiel says with a tight smile, “If just let me finish-”  
  
“Thunderstruck,” Dean repeats, “The pie stays.” He uncrosses his arms and lets him balled fists drop to his side.  
  
“Well, what if we made is a seasonal thing?” Sam offers, very confused as he glances between Castiel and Dean.  
  
“No, the apple pie is a menu staple.” Dean says firmly. Castiel looks at him, his thinning patience at a breaking point.  
  
“Dean, can I talk to you for a moment?” He asks quietly.  
  
“Everything stays on camera, Castiel,” Crowley calls out from behind the sound tech. Castiel groans inaudibly and rubs at his eyes.  
  
“I’m here to help, Dean,” he sighs in exasperation, “But I can’t do that if-”  
  
“Then leave,” Dean hisses, “If you can’t fucking fix things without breaking everything to pieces, then leave.” Castiel is dumbstruck. He has no idea where this sudden surge of hostility is coming from. Crowley admonishes Dean for his language, but only receives an eyeroll in return.  
  
“What is your problem?” Cas mutters under his breath.  
  
“My problem is that you think you can just come in here and just change shit arbitrarily,” Dean barks, “Trying to take away what I’ve worked my entire life for! You have no right and you have no clue how this places runs.” Castiel tries not to respond, but it’s too much.  
  
“You know what? You’re right!” Castiel snaps sarcastically, “I have no idea how this places works! I have no idea how you didn’t run it into the ground 3 years ago!  _You make no profit_ , Dean. That is rule #1 of running a business!”  
  
“Well, Spending money on that frou-frou interior design bullshit is not going to help us!” Dean bellows. Cas chuckles humorlessly.  
  
“Well, it’ll do far more good than you throwing your money down the drain ‘experimenting’ from your mom’s diary!” Dean’s expression drops for a moment before turning righteously angry. Dean looks like he’s about three seconds from laying him out, so Castiel decides to just go for broke and live up to his reputation.  
  
“God forbid anyone with any sort of business acumen come in and try to help you!” Castiel continues, “But you're so pig-headed and so determined to fail on your own-”  
  
“We’re not failing!” Dean yells, stepping up into his face. Castiel snorts derisively.  
  
“Six months,” he mutters, “and you will be.” Dean frowns bitterly, nostrils flaring before turning on his heel and stomping out of the building, slamming the door behind him. The sound of the impala’s engine roaring to life echoes down the block, as does the squeal of tires as it peels out.  
  
Sam turns and glares at Castiel incredulously before brushing past him into the kitchen. Castiel looks at Hannah, who studiously avoids his gaze, instead focusing on the tablet in her hands.  
  
“I guess that’s a wrap for today,” Crowley sighs, “Come along then, let’s get packed up and back to the hotel.” Hannah follows Crowley and the crew out the door, sparing Castiel one pained look before she does.  
  
Castiel let’s his back fall against the wall and rubs at his temples. He had never had an episode dissolve like this. Especially one that had been progressing so well. Dean just lost it. Over what? Apple pie.  
  
Castiel pushes off the wall and follows the crew out the door.  
  
“It was a mistake to come back here,” he mutters.

 

* * *

 

As soon as he enters the suite, Castiel flops down onto the bed. Hannah is meeting with Crowley about changing their flights out of Chicago, so he has a few minutes to himself. The entire ride back to the hotel he had stewed over what could’ve caused Dean’s outburst and by the time they’d arrived, he’d worked himself into a pretty good funk. There was potential in Winchester and Sons, so much potential, but Dean stubbornness was its biggest inhibitor. The guy couldn’t take two steps back and look at things objectively. It was all about the dream; not even his dream, his mom’s.

Castiel sighs and drags a hand over his face. He hates this. There haven’t been many, but the episodes where they walk away knowing the restaurant or business they’re working with is beyond help are the hardest. The worst part is, for a second, Castiel saw what Winchester and Sons could be, or could’ve been as is now the case.  
  
There is a knock at the door and Castiel stands from the bed to open it. Crowley is there, still in his coat.  
  
“Hannah is about to do a dinner run,” he says, “What would you like?”  
  
“Not hungry,” Castiel mumbles, walking away from the door. Crowley follows him into the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.  
  
“Ah, you’re in a mood I see. Is this about today?” Crowley asks, “Honestly, Castiel, you can’t take these situations so personally. This is one of those things you can’t control.” Castiel falls onto the bed once more.  
  
“But I did have control!” He insists, “Everything was going so well yesterday. Hell, this morning everything was fine. I just don’t understand what set Dean off.” Crowley sits down the besides him.  
  
“He’s just a hothead, Castiel,” Crowley assures, “One with some obvious emotional issues. We’re good to be rid of him.” He slaps him on the back hard, lurching Castiel forward.  
  
“And it isn’t a total loss,” Crowley says rising to his feet, “I have enough footage to cut this into a decent episode. Maybe we can get in touch with Sam, do a close-out interview.” Castiel shakes his head.  
  
“No, no, Don’t bother Sam. He has enough on his plate. Let’s just get out of here,” He sighs. Crowley nods and bids him a goodbye as he leaves the room. Castiel waves, not raising his gaze from the floor.  
  
As soon as the door closes, he lifts his head and grabs the remote from the bed, switching on the TV. Two talking heads are arguing back and forth on CNN and Castiel knows he can’t handle that right now. He flips the channel and rises to his feet.  
The idea of raiding the minibar seems very appealing right now.

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, Castiel is feeling comfortably numb. He sucks down a small bottle of Absolut in one gulp and chuckles at the ridiculousness of infomercial cookware ( _What the Hell is a Flavor Wave??_ ).

There is a soft knock and it takes Castiel two beats before he realizes that someone is knocking on  _his_ door. He stands, swaying slightly, and walks toward the door. It opens to reveal Hannah, brows furrowed and holding a camera.  
  
“What?” Castiel says, politeness flying out the window with his sobriety. Hannah thrusts the camera toward his chest before stepping into the room. She scrunches her nose as she takes count of the tiny empty bottles littering the table.  
  
“Are you drunk?” She asks.  
  
“No,” Castiel says, “just a little buzzed.” He rolls his eyes as Hannah shakes her head in disappointment.  
  
“You know, I could’ve bought you three full-size bottles of alcohol for what you paid for the mini-bar?” She crosses her arms in front of her and Castiel feels the need to remind her that he is  _her_ boss, not the other way around.  
  
“What do you want, Hannah?” He asks, falling back onto the bed. The camera lands a few inches from him, bouncing on the mattress.  
  
“You should watch that,” she instructs.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Watch the recording.” She says. Castiel raises his head and picks up the camera, studying it.  
  
“It has Dean’s confessional,” Hannah explains as she sits in the chair opposite.  
  
“So?” Castiel grumbles, the thought of Dean souring his mood.  
  
“Just watch the damn thing.” She sighs. Castiel sits up with a grunt, taking the camera in his hands and switching it on. He taps the playback button and the screen comes to life. Dean is staring back at him, face open and friendly in spite of the bags ringing his eyes. Castiel hears Crowley’s voice asking Dean questions, receiving short, curt answers in return. Dean begins to talk about why he didn’t want the show there in the first place, how angry he was about it, everything Castiel has heard before. He glances doubtfully at Hannah.  
  
“Keep watching,” she says.  
  
Dean brightens as he discusses further Castiel’s changes and what he’d implemented. Castiel smiles sadly. He doesn’t know what Hannah’s reasoning was in making him feel worse.  
  
 _“So you like Castiel’s decisions, then?”_  Crowley’s voice is audible from behind the camera.  
 _“Yeah, sure.”_  Dean replies,  _“Guy’s smart.”_  
 _“Even his recommendation that you step away from the business?”_  Castiel’s eyes widen.  
  
What the hell did he just say? On Camera, an array of emotions cross Dean’s face within a matter of seconds: hurt, betrayal, anger, shock. Castiel glances at Hannah, his face no doubt mirroring Dean’s.  
  
“I know,” she mutters, giving him a pained smirk. The camera cuts off a moment later. Castiel sits up, completely dumbstruck. He couldn’t believe Crowley would twist his words like that. No, that’s not true; He  _absolutely_ believes Crowley would do that. Castiel switches off the camera and drops it back down on the bed.  
  
“Why?” It’s all he can think to ask. Hannah leans back in the chair and crosses her arms.  
  
“I guess Crowley didn’t think the episode was dramatic enough,” she mutters, clearly as disgusted as Castiel. He gets to his feet, feeling much more sober than he had been a few minutes ago. He grabs his wallet and slips the room key card into his back pocket.  
  
“Whoa, whoa, where are you going?” Hannah calls after him.  
  
“I owe Dean an apology,” he says, grabbing his coat out of the closet, “What’s closest: the red line or the blue line?”

 

* * *

 

Dean finds baking meditative. It’s so easy to zone out when all you have to think about is how many cups of one thing or what kind of consistency you need for a certain batter or dough. Sam occasionally tries to drag Dean to yoga, and while he doesn’t appreciate the medieval-style torture that is vinyasa, he does get it when the instructor talks about “clearing your mind”. All he needs, though is a little flour and a warm oven; Sam can keep his yoga studio.  
  
He methodically drags the spatula along the side of the bowl, scraping the excess ganache back onto itself. The chocolate raspberry tart serves a dual purpose: one, to help him relax and clear his head and two, as an apology for Sam. His brother may not like sweets, but Dean is well aware that his sister-in-law would do nearly anything for a slice of Raspberry Chocolate Tart, including sweet talking his brother for him.  
  
Dean smiles to himself as he stirs, only drawn out of his revelry by a heavy knock at the back door. Dean is at attention, but not alarmed. Occasionally, they get a few homeless from around the neighborhood knocking on their door after hours, asking if they might take any of the leftover baked goods off their hands. However, it’s a less common occurrence in the bitterly cold weather of early march.  
  
Dean walks to the door cautiously, taking note of where his dad’s old Colt revolver is stored on the shelf above the doorway.  
  
“Hello?” He carefully cracks the door open, peering out into the dark. He doesn’t believe his eyes for a moment; Castiel Novak is standing at his back door, bundled up in a peacoat and knit hat.  
  
“I knocked this time,” he says sheepishly, “Um… Hello, Dean.” he adds. Dean’s instinct tells him to slam the door right in Cas’ smug, oh-so-perfect face, but something about Castiel’s defeated expression stays his hand.  
  
“What do you want?” He says curtly, pressing his head through the door. Castiel fidgets in the cold and stares down at his feet.  
  
“I came to… um, apologize.” He says. Dean frowns angrily.  
  
“Day late and a dollar short, Chuckles,” Dean huffs. As he tries to shut the door, Cas’s hand flies out, keeping it wedged open.  
  
“Dean, please,” he interjects, “I just want to talk.”  
  
“Nothing to talk about,” Dean tries pushing harder on the door, “Or are you just trying to kick a man when he’s down?” He gives Castiel a sarcastic smile. Cas sighs heavily and shakes his head.  
  
“Please, just… Can we just talk? Inside?” He emphasizes, “It’s cold as Hell out here.” Castiel pulls his bare hands out of his pockets, rubbing them together frantically. He makes a pitiful sight. Dean rubs at the bridge of his nose and steps aside, swinging the door open to allow Castiel in.  
  
Castiel steps inside, shedding his coat and placing it onto a nearby hook. He peers around the kitchen in the same manner that he did on his first day, but instead of a critical eye, his gaze seems almost curious of the set up.  
  
“What are you making?” he asks, taking note of the ingredients on the prep table.  
  
“Dark chocolate raspberry tart,” Dean offers stiffly, “Don’t worry, I paid for the ingredients myself. I’m not wasting the bakery’s money.” Castiel’s looks away bashfully. He drops his coat over the edge of a stool.  
  
“Listen, Dean, I want to-”  
  
“You listen,” Dean cuts him off, “You can make me look like the biggest asshole on Earth if you want; That’s your right and it’s probably not far off from the truth. But do not take my… behavior out on Sam or the bakery.” Castiel looks at Dean, tilting his head in confusion.  
  
“We were really counting on the money,” Dean admits, leaning against a shelf full of pans, “It’s already been earmarked for the stove and we… we can’t afford it otherwise. Please… Please don’t-”  
  
“Dean,” Castiel stops him, “We’re not taking the money away. We never were. Hell, I bet if it were up to Crowley he’d double it.” Dean stares at Cas warily.  
  
“Wait… then what-?”  
  
“I never said that you should give up the bakery,” Castiel blurts out finally, “Crowley twisted my words.” Dean’s mouth hangs open before forming into a frown.  
  
“You said I should step back,” Dean says angrily.  
  
“I said you should  _take_  a step back,” Cas sighs, “You are working yourself to death, Dean. 70, 80 hour work-weeks are not healthy or normal, not even for a small business owner. You need a break. You need to sleep!” Dean runs a hand through his hair. Castiel’s words aren’t unfamiliar; they are the same ones he hears near-constantly from Sam.  
  
“Yeah, well I don’t have much of a choice,” Dean spits harshly.  
  
“You could get a staff,” Castiel offers, as if he’s the first person to offer the idea.  
  
“We’ve already gone over this, Cas,” Dean groans, “With what money?”  
  
“There are ways to get staff for cheap,” Castiel reasons, folding his arms in front of him, “My recommendation on the show, and to your brother, was hiring a few students form a local culinary college, make it into a work study program.” Dean glares at Castiel incredulously.  
  
“Why would I want to baby-sit a bunch of ‘Top Chef’ Wannabes?” Dean snorts sarcastically, “Much less let them near my kitchen?”  
  
“Because you could teach them,” Castiel replies, “Not just about cooking, but about business management. Real-world experience is a valuable commodity. I know many students would be chomping at the bit for a chance like that.” Dean has no response to that. He’ll grant that It’s not the worst idea on Earth.  
  
“I’m not entirely sold, but… I guess that idea has some merits,” Dean admits reluctantly, “I’m still pissed about what you said earlier.”  
  
“Yeah, and I’m an asshole. I thought that was established early on. _Have you seen my show_?” Dean laughs loud at that, and Castiel’s own grin in response makes his heart skip a beat.  
  
“Look, Dean, what I said was uncalled for-”  
  
“No, you’re right,” Dean shakes his head, stepping back to his spot at the prep table to finish his work, “I get too caught up in trying to make things exactly as my mom would’ve wanted them. My Dad was the same way:  _‘Do it like this, Dean. Work harder, Dean. Don’t let Mom down_.’ Drilled that into my head until a heart attack sent him packing.” He grabs up the prep bowl of ganache and begins pouring the smooth, dark filling into the fluted pan.  
  
“I never stop to think about what I want, or Sam.” Dean continues glumly, “At this point, I’m not sure if I actually like what I’m doing.”  
  
“You do,” Castiel says with complete certainty, “I know you do.”  
  
“How?” Dean says caustically, leveling the ganache in the pan with a spatula.  
  
“Because I see the way you bake.” Castiel says, watching Dean carefully, “I see the way your face lights up when you take a pie or a batch of pastries from the oven.”  
  
“I like baking,” Dean says with a shrug, setting down the bowl, “Doesn’t mean I’m cut out to run a business.”  
  
“But it’s more than that,” Cas says, “It’s more than some misplaced obligation. You have this … gleam in your eye, when you talk about this place, when you’re enjoying yourself. I think if you were to let go, you might see that more.”  
  
“Let go?” Dean asks, raising a questioning brow, “Got any other advice, Queen Elsa?” Cas chuckles and leans against the prep table as Dean transfers the tarte to the cooler.  
  
“I’m serious, though,” Cas counters, “You clearly enjoy doing this, but you won’t let yourself because you can’t release any of that responsibility.” Dean looks doubtful and Cas sighs.  
  
“Just think about what I said,” He offers, “Bringing in students.” Dean doesn’t say anything, just nods. He watches Cas for a moment as the other man glances inside the now empty bowl, a few stray lines of chocolate decorating the sides. Castiel dips his finger into the bowl, drawing it along a smear of chocolate before popping it into his mouth. His eyes widen and he hums in surprise.  
  
“You like it?” Dean asks, a small swell of pride rising within him.  
  
“Very much,” Castiel says, dipping his finger into the bowl once more and gathering up more stray chocolate, “It’s very good, but there’s something in there… I can’t… quite…” Castiel’s eyes light up, “Chambord! Is that it?” He smiles brightly.  
  
“Yup,” Dean says with a grin, “I’ll add glazed raspberries on top once it cools, but the liqueur gives it a little kick.”  
  
“Certainly does,” Castiel agrees quietly, meeting Dean’s eye and going in for a third taste. As he does, a bit of chocolate gets caught at the corner of his mouth and, for some reason, Dean can’t focus on anything else. Castiel is saying something, but Dean’s eyes are locked on soft pink lips muddied with chocolate. He can feel himself licking his own lips subconsciously when Castiel waves a hand in front of his face. He takes a step toward Castiel.  
  
“Can you… Can you hold still for just a second?” he mumbles. Cas’ brow furrows as Dean steps forward and reaches out, brushing a floured thumb from the outside corner of his mouth, inward. Cas’ breath is warm against Dean’s hand and his lips part slightly in response. Dean pops his thumb into his own mouth, sucking the chocolate off it.  
  
Over the sound of the walk-in cooler and pipes rattling, Dean can hear his own heartbeat echoing in his ears. Castiel’s tongue darts out, following the path of his thumb and It’s almost too much for Dean to handle.  
  
In an instant, he closes the distance between them, cupping Cas’ face in his palm and bringing their lips together in a heated kiss. Cas tenses in surprise for just a moment before melting against Dean’s lips, soft and pliant. His hands find Dean’s shoulders, gripping them tightly and pulling himself closer into Dean’s body and deeper into the kiss.  
  
Dean responds immediately, pressing Cas against the prep table. He parts Cas’ mouth with his own, moaning as their tongues slip past each other. His body is hard and warm against Dean’s and he can’t control his hands as they slip over Cas’ sides, fingers brushing beneath the hem of his t-shirt and causing a shiver to run through the other man.  
  
Cas is the first to pull back from the kiss. Dean’s lips chase him and for a second he fears that maybe he went a step too far. Cas’ eyes are locked on Dean’s lips. He doesn’t say a word, rather launching for Dean’s mouth once more in a kiss far hungrier than before.  
  
He wraps his hands around Dean’s neck. Dean responds in kind, hands tugging at Cas’ thighs and pulling him up until he’s seated on the prep table. A cloud of flour rises in the commotion and both men are distracted when an empty metal bowl falls to the floor with a crash.  
  
Dean pulls back, coming to a rational realization.  
  
“I can’t fuck you in my kitchen,” he mutters.  
  
“Take me home then,” Cas says, latching onto Dean’s neck and sucking at the tender skin. Dean pushes Cas away gently and takes him by the hand, picking his wool coat up off the hook by the door as they pass it.  
  
“How’d you get here?” Dean asks, as pulls Cas toward the impala.  
  
“The train,” Cas mumbles. Dean stops and glares at him.  
  
“The nearest station is 8 blocks away,” he mumbles in disbelief. Cas shrugs but doesn’t say anything. Dean wants to simultaneously wrap Cas in his arms and smack him upside the head for not calling a cab. He suddenly sees what Sam meant about the illusion being broken. Castiel looks stripped raw. Dean isn’t sure if it’s an effect of the kissing or the late winter wind whipping past them. He seems unexpectedly vulnerable and it’s difficult for Dean to not find that appealing.  
  
“C’mon,” He sighs, tugging at Cas’ hand and pulling him close as they continue toward the car.

 

* * *

 

Castiel is nothing like he expects. He lets himself be guided around Dean’s apartment, clothes slowly being pulled from his body. They do a strange, stilted dance, lips continuously attached to some point on each other’s body as the make their way toward the bedroom. Dean can’t get enough of him. He makes these reedy high-pitched gasp as Dean’s tongue trails trails down his neck before he clamps onto his collarbone.

When they finally make it through the doorway, Dean lazily hooks two fingers into the belt loops of Cas’ jeans, pulling him closer. Cas looks up at him and, even in the ambient dark of the bedroom, his clear blue eyes stand out. Dean finds himself momentarily lost in them when he feels Cas’ fingers meticulously working on the top button of his own jeans.  
  
“Cas,” Dean croaks out softly. He opens his mouth to continue but is met with silence. There are so many things he wants or needs to tell him, but he’s unsure as to where to begin.  
  
“Have you ever…?” Cas trails off the implication of  _done this before_  left unsaid. Dean shakes his head minutely.  
  
“Not  _this_ exactly... a guy,” he mumbles, glad that the darkness hides the flush that has no doubt risen to his cheeks, “I’ll be honest, man, I’m not too clear on how to do this.” Even in the dark, Dean can see Castiel’s tentative smile.  
  
“I’ll show you,” He encourages softly, now leading Dean toward the bed, “Do you have lube?” Dean’s eye are wide, the thought that Cas would possibly want to top him only now occurring to him. Dean looks at Cas nervously.  
  
“Cas, I-”  
  
“I want you to fuck me, Dean,” Cas says, simply and without judgement. Dean’s face must show his relief because a small, amused grin crosses Cas’ expression, “You can stop worrying.” He kisses Dean lightly as they tumble onto the bed.  
  
Dean, as it turns out, does have lube and it’s quickly put to good use as Castiel is stretched out across Dean’s bed. Dean watches in awed fascination, transfixed by the sight of Cas opening himself up, grasping Dean’s hand and drawing his fingers southward to join his own. Castiel, moans quietly, teeth digging into his bottom lip. Dean follows his fingers, mimicking his actions and stretching and spreading his digits within his hole. He feels drunk on his arousal, desperate to touch every inch of Cas. His lips hover over the other man’s as he feels the shaky breath and the vibration of a low groan coming from within Cas.  
  
“Oh fuck, Dean,” Castiel gasps, his fingers grasping at the sheets, “Please, I fucking need… I’m ready.” Dean just nods and withdraws his hand before positioning himself over Cas. He settles himself between his knees and smooths his palms up the smooth hair of Cas’ claves, pressing his thighs toward his chest.  
  
Cas’s eyes never wander from Dean’s face, his mouth hanging open slightly. Dean rolls on a condom and slicks himself up generously, not wanting to hurt Cas. Cas’ hand grasps onto Dean’s cock, lining him up as he presses forward.  
Dean exhales heavily. The warm compression of Cas around him is nothing like he’d imagined, and he needs to take a moment to gather his bearings or this whole thing is going to be embarrassingly fast. He catches Cas’ gaze, who just gives an enthusiastic nod as a go-ahead.  
  
Dean begins to move, relishing the warmth and grip of Cas’ body. It’s slow as Dean attempts to find a balance in his rhythm. He leans close into Cas, pressing kisses down his neck and nipping at the sensitive skin. quiet gasps rise from within Cas and his hips can’t up to meet each of Dean’s thrusts.  
  
Dean’s confidence grows with signs that Cas is enjoying himself and he picks up the pace. He cups Cas’ face in his hands and kisses him deeply, swallowing a low groan.  
  
There are no words between them, just inarticulate moans and sighs. Dean glances down at Cas’ thick cock resting between them and he has a sudden, urgent need to touch him.  
  
He wraps a hand around Cas’ cock and begins pumping in time with his own movements. A litany of filth begins streaming out of Castiel’s mouth and his legs wrap around Dean’s waist, urging him deeper.  
  
“Oh fuck, Dean!!” Cas cries out, throwing his head back, Dean nuzzles into Cas’ neck, doing everything in his power to hold off his orgasm. He speeds up the movement of his hand, determined for Cas to come first.  
  
A stuttering moan fills the room as Cas erupts over Dean’s fist onto his own stomach. Dean lets go, pumping into Cas a few more times until he’s tipped over the edge. He collapses on top of Cas, nuzzling into his neck. Both men pant unevenly, catching their breath. Dean presses himself up on his forearms, pulling his flagging cock out of Cas, and falling next to him on bed. After a moment, He sits up, rising from the bed and walking in towards the bathroom. He drops the condom in the trash and glances in the mirror. For the first time in a very long time, Dean sees what Sam and Cas both see: He looks tired. Not just tired, but drained. Maybe they’re right, Dean is spreading himself too thin. The last thing he wants it to be stopped in his tracks by a heart attack at 45 like his dad. He sighs and turns on the tap, running a wash cloth under the water once it’s warm.  
  
As soon as he returns to the room, towel to clean Cas off in hand, he stops in the doorway. Cas is dead to the world. Dean’s quilt is bunched around him and, even though he might be a blanket hog, Dean finds it endearing.  
  
He drops the wet washcloth on the dresser and stumbles into bed. He snuggles under the covers, pulling a sleeping Cas into his arms and pressing a kiss into his hair before dropping off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes slowly, his hand falling on the opposite side of the bed, noticing the cool sheets beneath his fingers. It takes a moment to register that Cas is not in the bed. Dean lifts his head groggily, ready to grouse to himself about his stupidity over hooking up. His hurt and anger immediately fade, though, when he notices a shirtless Cas dressed just his blue jeans, arms hanging out of a half-open window. His skin is stubbled with goose bumps in the early morning air and Dean notices a plume of gray cigarette smoke mixing with the fog of his breath as he exhales.  
  
“That’s a filthy habit,” Dean mumbles, sitting up so he’s resting back on his forearms. Cas startles at the noise and turns to look at Dean. In the light of day, Dean makes note that Cas is still unfairly attractive, all mussed hair and pillow-creased cheeks. Dean is sure he looks exactly like the hot mess he feels.  
  
“I know,” he sighs, indicating his fingers clutching the cigarette as they hang out the window, “I’m trying to quit.”  
  
“How long have you been trying?” Dean asks ruefully.  
  
“8 years,” Cas replies with a snort. He takes a long puff, flicking ash and directing the smoke out the window. “Dean-”  
  
“Don’t,” Dean orders gently.  
  
“Don’t what?”  
  
“Don’t say what you are going to say.” Dean knows exactly what Cas is going to say: You’re nice, Dean. You’re cute, Dean. I like you a lot but this won’t work for reasons XYZ. It’s the same reasons he’s heard from an endless string of girlfriends and one-night stands.  
  
“What am I going to say?” Cas asks curiously, flicking the spent butt out into the street. He pulls the ancient window shut with a high pitched squeak.  
  
“It doesn’t matter, but I know it won’t be good for me,” Dean mutters. He meets Castiel’s pensive gaze, “It’s too early to talk about things, anyway, especially when all I want to do is pull you into my shower and give you the blowjob of your life.” Cas raises an interested brow at this idea. He stands to his full height and unbuttons his jeans.  
  
“Well then,” Cas lets his jeans fall to the floor, revealing his lack of underwear, “Who am I to stop you?” Dean grins brightly and scrambles from the bed. He leads Cas toward his too-small bathroom, fortunately blessed with enough hot water and steller water pressure.  
  
They make out lazily as the warm water washes over them. Dean sinks to his knees and enjoys the feeling of the spray on his shoulders as he swallows Cas down.  
  
If he thought the noises Cas made last night were enjoyable, the echo of the shower only makes them better. Cas runs a hand through Dean’s hair, grip tightening each time his tongue does something right. Dean may have never fucked a guy before, but he has blow-job game down to a science.  
  
Cas comes hard with a guttural moan. A second after Dean swallows all of his release, he’s catching Cas in his arms as he sinks to the floor of the shower on shaky knees. They sit there under the stream for a moment before Cas pulls Dean on top of him, wrapping a hand around his cock and jerking him quickly until he comes with a cry.  
  
They finally exit the shower a half-hour later, clean and pruney. Dean dresses on autopilot, eyes never leaving Castiel. He raises his gaze at one point, no doubt feeling Dean’s stare on him and smiles.  
  
“We need to talk, Dean,” he says gently. Dean shrugs as he throws a flannel over a black t-shirt.  
  
“We will,” Dean mumbles, “Let’s just get through the rest of the day, ok? We’ll grab coffee or something. Go someplace where I don’t work.” Castiel smiles at him, but something about his expression seems conflicted.  
  
“Alright,” He mumbles. He throws on his peacoat and crosses the room toward Dean, kissing him tenderly.  
“I have to get back to the hotel or Crowley will flay me alive,” Cas says. Dean snorts and nods, lightly taking Cas’ fingers in his own. Castiel glances at him, a look of confusion causing his brow to furrow, “Aren’t you late for work?”  
  
“It’s Monday,” Dean says plainly, “We’re closed.”  
  
“You’re not going in on your day off?” Cas asks with a mixture or sarcasm and surprise.  
  
“Naw, I think I’m going to take a day,” Dean replies with a shrug, “You’re, uh… welcome to join me if you like.” Dean looks up at Cas through thick eyelashes, trying for a sad-puppy-eyes like Sam. Cas smiles and shakes his head.  
  
“No, I need to get back,” He says, pulling up Dean’s hand to kiss the top of his knuckles.  
  
“I’ll see you at the bakery tomorrow morning?” Dean asks hopefully. Castiel face is abruptly unreadable before breaking into a soft smile and a nod.  
  
They kiss goodbye at Dean’s door and he watches Cas retreat down the hallway toward the stairwell. As Dean closes the door, he lets his head fall heavily against the wood. This isn’t going to be easy, in fact it’s going to be awkward as hell. Not because he feels uncomfortable with Cas, but because he knows as soon as he sees him again tomorrow, he’s going to want to kiss him, enthusiastically and often.  
  
He understands that clearing the air is the smart thing to do, but Dean wants at least one day to pretend that everything is perfect: His business isn’t dying, He’s not losing everything he’s ever worked for, and he just met someone who isn’t more than likely going to disappear out of his life in a few days.  
  
For one day, things can be perfect.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Dean arrives right on time at 4 am. He makes his way to the trailer where Hair and Makeup prod and pull at him until they deem him good enough to be on camera. He crosses the vacant parking lot and the empty street toward the bakery, walking around the building to the back door.

Sam is already in the kitchen, doing an inventory count. He nods hello to Dean as his lips continue to mouth “seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…” The camera and sound guys both offer Dean lazy salutes as he pulls on his chef’s jacket. Dean looks around the kitchen; there’s no sign of Castiel, Hannah or Crowley. They must be in the front of the store.  
  
Dean pushes through the swinging door. Hannah stands on the middle of the room, tapping frantically on the tablet. Crowley stands to the side, talking emphatically into his phone, but there is still no Castiel in sight. Dean quickly organizes the front register, biding his time. Maybe Cas is having a cigarette out back, maybe he’s late. Dean tries not to think about it as he marks the day’s specials on the blackboard near the front door. He debates on weather Tuesday is a Frito pie kind of day or Quiche Lorraine, but his eyes keep wandering out the window, hoping he’ll see Cas coming up the walkway.  
  
After 20 minutes he can no longer take it and breaks.  
  
“Uh, Hannah,” He asks meekly, “It’s getting time to open. Where’s Castiel?” Hannah glances up from her tablet. Her expression is blank, but Dean can swear for a second there was a flash of sympathy there.  
  
“Castiel has an event in New York tonight,” She states, “He needed to get back. We’re just going to finish with some coverage shots, narration, a couple talking heads.”  
  
Dean looks at her blankly for a moment and then nods silently. He turns back to his work, letting the news settle in on him.  
He’s hurt by Castiel running off without an explanation, but it’s not intense, more like a soft ache in his chest. A sense of resignation telling him “ _Well, what the hell did you expect?_ ” It’s not like Dean is a stranger to one night stands. Hell, he practically invented ‘love em and leave em’, but being on the receiving end is a far different experience. He walks back to the kitchen where he sees Sam looking over the day’s baking order.  
  
“I think maybe we should make three apples today.” Sam says as an aside, “We can do 2 traditional and one dutch-”  
  
“Cut it,” Dean says sternly.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Cut the Apple. It’s off the menu until the fall,” Dean replies, focused on setting up his mise. He can see Sam watching him out of the corner of his eye, a deep look of concern on his face.  
  
“Dean-”  
  
“I think we should make Quiche Lorraine Tuesday’s standard from now on,” He plucks a couple pie pans off the shelf.  
  
“Dean!” Sam repeats, louder this time.  
  
“And then we can do something Tex-Mex on Thursday,” Dean continues, popping into the cooler momentarily to grab a carton of eggs and butter, “Which do you think? Chili Con Carne Pie or Frito Pie?”  
  
“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam finally gets out. Dean meets his brother’s eye reluctantly. Sam’s expression is puzzled, clearly searching for whatever is bothering him. Dean, true to form, does what he has done his entire life: he carefully collects all of his misery and frustration and buries them deep down within himself.  
  
“I’m making a change, Sam,” He says flatly, “A lot of changes.” and without another word he turns back to his prep table and gets to work.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Castiel watches the rough cut footage of Winchester and Son’s over Crowley’s shoulder. It’s dark in the editing bay and the contrasting brightness of the screen causes his eyes to ache.

“What do you think?” Crowley mumbles, as the video continues to play.

“I don’t know, Crowley,” Castiel says, rubbing at his eyes furiously, “You managed to make me look like an asshole.”

“You always look like an asshole,” Crowley counters, “That’s why you were hired for this.”

“But a bigger asshole than usual,” Castiel replies, “Did you manage to capture  _every_ dirty look Dean gave me?” It was hard rewatching the footage, especially watching Dean’s expression throughout the episode. Every frown, every eye roll, every stony glare cast in Castiel’s direction felt like an immediate dagger in the heart.

Or maybe it was just Castiel’s guilty conscience.

Originally it hadn’t mattered whether he left a day early or not, but following their night together, Castiel felt like maybe he owed it to Dean to say something. He had meant to, too, but then he’d been distracted by Dean’s amazing shower and even more amazing mouth.

Castiel’s cock gives a valiant twitch at the memory and he has to move to readjust himself. He watches distractedly as the episode continues, featuring more shots of an exhausted and angry Dean and an apologetic Sam. When they get to the last scenes, though, Castiel sits up and pays attention.

It was the day after their morning together. Dean looks calm and focused and, perhaps most importantly, well-rested. He discusses menu changes with his brother and Castiel feels his heart twist when Dean puts his advice into practice.

After all Castiel did, after walking away without an explanation, he would’ve completely understood if Dean had chucked his suggestions just out of spite, but no, Dean didn’t do that. He rose above any pettiness, and acted like a professional and for some reason, this makes Castiel feel worse than he already does.

“What do you think?” Crowley asks, pausing the footage at the credits. Castiel nods briskly.

“It works, uh…” He quirks his lips to the side, “Did Dean really change the menu?”

“Yeah, after all that fight, the boy just bent over, no problem,” Castiel has to stifle a laugh over Crowley’s unintentional and incorrect innuendo, “He also mentioned possibly contacting a nearby cooking school and partnering in a work study program. I wonder where he ever got that idea?” Crowley raises a questioning brow and stares at Castiel accusingly. Castiel wants to throw Crowley’s underhanded tactics back in his face, but he instead shrugs absently before rising from the chair and walking out of the editing bay.

He walks down the hall to his tiny excuse for an office. Hannah is already in there, gaze locked on her tablet.

“The network wants you at the upfronts in May, but I think we’d discussed-”

“Oh for the love of God, Hannah! Can you take your eyes off that fucking thing for two Goddamn seconds!” Castiel barks. Hannah’s head shoots up at the uncharacteristic outburst, eyes wide in shock. Castiel immediately regrets it, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” He falls gracelessly into his desk chair and lets his head drop into his hand, rubbing at his eyes once more. Hannah watches him, tilting her head curiously, before setting her tablet down on the opposite table, crossing the room and leaning against the window.

“What’s going on, Castiel?” He knows her question is merely a courtesy, his chance to spill everything. Hannah is astute enough to know what’s going on. She’s known exactly what’s been going on since Castiel disappeared from their hotel at 9 pm, only to return wearing the same slightly-more rumpled clothes at 10 am the next day.

“I fucked up,” Castiel admits softly. He can’t see her, but he knows Hannah is nodding.

“Ok… How?”

“I… the whole Winchester and Sons thing,” He sighs, “I came at it all wrong and I acted like such an… an… assbutt!” Hannah snorts.

“You’re always very tough on these owners,” Hannah reminds him.

“Yeah, but I got downright cruel with Dean,” he says, lifting his head, “He accused me of not knowing shit and I lost it.”

“You told them what he needed to hear,” Hannah offers, “And they took your advice in the end, right?” Cas nods, but his mood is still in the gutter.

“Is this about you sleeping with Dean and not telling him you were leaving?” Castiel’s head pops up and he stares at Hannah dumbstruck, receiving a withering look in return.

“Oh please,” Hannah chides, “It was so clear that boy had gotten some and the way you looked the next morning, I know you’re the one that gave it to him.” Castiel blushes deeply and looks away, his silence answer enough.

“Look, Castiel, how you are when you’re working, that’s fine. I understand that. Hell, it’s encouraged.” Hannah offers, “But you’re not an asshole, not really. You are not a cruel person... But what you did to Dean was pretty cruel.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Castiel asks, dropping his chin into his hands and staring up at her.

“Apologize, first and foremost. Beg for forgiveness if you ever want Dean to look at you again, secondly. After that?” Hannah shrugs and bites at her cuticle. “I don’t know; you’re the idea man.” She grabs her tablet up off the desk and slips it under her arm. “Just fix it,” she orders, pointing a finger in Castiel’s face before righting herself and swiping the tablet on. “Now, as I was saying: in May… the Up-fronts or that Nat Geo special?”

 

* * *

 

Dean sits in their office glancing through a stack of resumes. There is a soft knock at the door and he looks up to see Sam standing in the doorway, holding up a stack of paper.

“We’ve received another 10,” he says.

“10?” Dean gapes. “You’ve got to be kidding me?” Sam steps into the office and drops the stack onto the desk.

“Nope,” Sam says with a pleased grin. He drops down into the chair opposite Dean.

“They do know this is an unpaid internship, right?” Dean asks.

“I don’t think it matters,” Sam says. “Never underestimate the appeal of real-world experience and college credit.” Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Damn,” he sighs with a pleased chuckle. He hadn’t expected this kind of response when he contacted the culinary schools in the area, but he can’t say he’s disappointed in the result. If Dean does have a gripe, it’s only that he’ll have to spend extra time reviewing resumes and interviewing prospective clients. Dean glances at the name at the top of the page, ‘Kevin Tran’, quickly scanning his rather impressive credentials.

“How do I break it to this kid that ‘cello virtuoso’ didn’t need to be on his application?” Dean jokes. Sam laughs softly and considers Dean.

“You look well,” he says. Dean raises his head, surprised by the admission. “I’m serious Dean, you look a lot better, like you’ve been sleeping.” Dean nods in agreement. Following a little restructuring, and a lot of insistence on Sam’s part, Dean had loosened his iron-grip on his responsibilities. It had been hard to let go at first. More than once he found his sister-in-law outside his front door when he tried to return to the bakery. Jess read him the riot act as she directed him back into the house and into bed.

In the end, the bakery hadn’t burned down without his constant presence. Dean would admit that was slightly disappointing, although not enough to give up a full-night’s rest.

“So, Jess and I are having a little get-together tomorrow night,” Sam starts carefully. Dean hums in response, half-focused on the resumes. “We’re having a viewing party. They’re… uh, they’re airing our episode tomorrow.” Dean’s brow pinches together but he doesn’t look at his brother.

“Our episode of ‘Kitchen Overhaul?’ Dean?”

“Yeah Sam, I get it,” Dean snaps. He was hoping to forget that whole experience if he could.

“So are you coming over?” Sam asks, eyes hopeful. Dean looks up at his brother, shoulders slumped.

“Sam,” he groans. “Don’t-”

“Do you really hate Chef Novak that much?” Sam asks skeptically. Dean sighs and scrubs a hand down his face in exasperation.

“It’s not that, Sam. It’s…” Dean trails off, annoyed that Sam won’t drop this. He thought they had finished this conversation weeks ago. “You know what Sam? You’re right. I  _do_ hate Chef Novak and never want to look at his stupid, smug… perfect face ever again.”

Sam smirks with an amused snort but drops the topic. “Alright Dean,” he says, rising to his feet. “But if you change your mind…”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Dean supplies, refocusing his attention on the applications. Sam turns, about to head back to the front of the bakery, but stops in the doorway.

“Perfect face?” He asks with wry grin.

“Out, Sam!” Dean orders, pointing a finger toward the door. Sam’s laugh echoes through the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Castiel and Hannah trudge through the brush, not more than a few feet behind their guide and interpreter. The rainforest is mesmerizing and Castiel can’t help but gape in amazement at his surroundings. He can hear their cameramen huffing behind them, weighed down by their equipment on the foreign terrain. Davi, their guide, says something in his native language and Artur, their interpreter, calls back to them.

“He says we will stop for the night shortly.”

Castiel and Hannah both nod and wipe the sweat from their brows. “This is much better than upfronts,” Hannah huffs, stepping over a massive root in their path and Castiel can’t disagree with that. When the choice came down to spending days brown-nosing TV executives or exploring the culinary diversity of the native tribes of Brazil, it was an easy decision. A month without Crowley only sweetened the deal.

Castiel can’t deny that his mind often drifts back to Dean. He never did contact the man, as he was too wrapped up in preparations for the trip. At least, that was his excuse. He scowls in thought and Hannah glances over at him.

“He won’t hate you,” she assures, reading his mind.

“He always hated me,” Castiel argues. “Just hates me more now.”

“You don’t know that,” Hannah says, adjusting the straps of her rucksack. Castiel shoots her a doubtful look but doesn’t say anything.

“Look, we’ll be back in a couple weeks, just… go see him,” Hannah offers curtly. No doubt she’s sick of Castiel’s hemming and hawing over his situation.

“And say what? Sorry we fucked and I ran off without explanation?” He grabs Hannah lightly by the shoulder, indicating for her to stop so the camera guys can catch up.

“Basically, yeah,” she responds. “Look, I’m not saying a grand gesture would work, but it probably couldn’t hurt either.” They continue walking once the crew are a few feet behind them.

“Grand gesture?” Castiel looks at her doubtfully. “Like what?” Hannah shrugs as much as her rucksack will allow.

“I don’t know, show him that you actually give a shit about him or something he loves,” Hannah replies. They’re approaching a clearing and Hannah picks up her pace to finish their trek.

“Like the bakery?” Castiel asks, hurrying after her.  
She stops in her tracks and turns to Castiel in exasperation. “Yes, like the bakery,” she says dully before continuing toward the clearing. “I’m your assistant, Castiel. I don’t get paid enough to sort out your love life. Honestly.” Castiel stands in place, wracking his brain. The cameramen pass him as they head to the clearing. There has to be something he can do for Dean.

When it hits him, it seems so obvious that he wonders how he missed it before. He smiles to himself, rushing to where Hannah and the crew are setting up camp.

 

* * *

 

_**1 month later** _

Dean shows Alex and Kevin how to properly whip meringue for a lemon pie. The bakery is nearing the end of the early morning rush and they have to finish half a dozen pies in less than an two hours. The cafe is busy and the soft murmur of customers ordering is drowned out by the hiss of the espresso machine and the ring of the cash register. It’s music to Dean’s ears. The noise from the front gets louder when Ash opens the kitchen door and calls out Dean’s name.

“Dean, there’s someone here to see you!” Dean rolls his eyes. Ash might be a genius, able to explain the chemical process of leavening bread in detail, but the kid has yet to grasp the idea of taking a message.

“Busy, Ash!” Dean calls out, before turning his attention back to the girls. “Now you’re going to want to let this set slightly before we take the pies out of the oven, otherwise we might get some weeping.”

Having the students here has been a mixed blessing. While some of them really know their shit and are a boon to the bakery (Dean is considering hiring Kevin on full time when he graduates), others Dean sees as giant 5-year-olds (Aaron’s not allowed near the stove after he set his sleeve on fire… a second time). Still, it’s been nice having something of a break and a life outside of the bakery. As much as he hates to admit that Cas was right, it was true. More employees meant more efficiency, better product. One of the students, a tech-savvy red-head named Charlie, even volunteered to set up and run their social media accounts and online ordering system.

“Uh Dean?” Ash pokes his head through the door once more, “I think you’re really going to want to come out here.” Dean growls and instructs Kevin to take over. He stomps through the door, ready to give Ash a rice of his mind when he’s stopped dead in his tracks.

It’s Castiel, standing in the middle of his bakery, looking carefully at the decor.

“Cas?” Dean asks, wiping his hands on his apron. It’s been months since he’s set eyes on the man, even on the TV. After the crew wrapped up and left, Dean didn’t have the nerve to watch the show again, especially when their episode was broadcast (Sam informed Dean that he was painted as “kind of a jerk, but a sympathetic one”). His heart twists in his chest as Cas turns and gives him a polite smile.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says. He stands in the center of the room awkwardly, uncharacteristically dressed in a t-shirt and jeans.

“What are you doing here?” It’s the one question he can’t seem to wrap his mind around, followed closely by “ _What the Hell, Man?_ ”

“I wanted to come and see how the bakery was doing,” Cas offers, eyes flicking around the room, settling anywhere but on Dean, “I… I really love what you’ve done with the place.” The walls now hold vintage lithographs of various muscle cars and the ecru paint highlights the dark wainscotting and rough-hewn wood counter. Industrial-style lamps hang over half a dozen cafe tables and the farm style chairs have been replaced with tufted stools. The whole place has the kind of lived in warm energy that most chain coffeehouses strive for. Castiel stops when he comes to a familiar chrome table and smiles. The formica has been covered with plexiglass and cut pieces of old roadmaps have been sandwiched in between. It’s a clever spin on the Americana-feel of the table’s original design. Cas looks up at Dean, but his smiles falters as he is met with a stony gaze.

“I see” Dean says, crossing his arms over his chest, “I thought you guys do that after 6 months?” Castiel frowns apologetically.

“Dean, I-”

“If we’re going to talk, can we not do it in the middle of my shop?” Dean asks, glancing at the line of people forming behind Cas and mustering as much composure as he can manage. Cas nods briefly.

“Should we go outside?”

“Sure,” Dean says. He turns on his heel and waves Castiel through the back, Kevin, Ash and Alex stop what they’re doing and watch them cross through the kitchen.

“One of you needs to be at the front!” Dean demands as he pushes through the back door.

“Where’s Sam?” Cas asks, only just noticing the lack of the other Winchester.

“He and Jess are taking a well-deserved vacation,” Dean offers, pulling out a stray folding chair, sitting backward on it and staring up at Cas. “Well? You were saying?” Cas takes a deep breath.

“Dean, I-”

“No!” Dean abruptly jumps to his feet, “No! You know what? I’m going to talk first!” Cas steps back as Dean begins pacing back and forth.

“I don’t get you, man!” He shouts at Cas, “One day you’re an asshole, the next you’re not. You say you say one thing and do another. You’re hot and you’re cold. What the hell is your problem!” It feels cathartic to finally yell at Cas, after months of racking his brain over the situation.

“I know,” Cas answers softly, “And you deserve a-”

“I mean, it’s not like I would’ve demanded you stay or anything.” Dean continues, “If you wanted a one night stand, that’s fine. But no explanation at all? Just leaving me hanging??” Dean takes a step forward, getting in Cas’ face.

“Dean-”

“A phone call! A text! a post-it note!” Dean lists off dramatically, “Anything would’ve been fine!”

“I couldn’t!” Cas finally spits out.

“Why?” Dean laughs sarcastically, “Someone holding a gun to your head?”

“I was in the Amazon!” Cas yells.

Dean’s face twists in confusion. “What?”

“I’ve been taping this special for National Geographic,” Cas replies, waving his hand in the air, “Been in Brazil for the better part of the month, completely off the grid.” Dean frowns. Cas does look tanner than he was previously, but that still leaves some questions.

“What about the two months before that?” He asks sarcastically. Cas’ whole body slumps and he rubs at the back of his neck.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he admits, “I was embarrassed and felt like a jerk and by the time I got up the courage to come talk to you… I was in the middle of South America.” Cas looks up at Dean and his expression is so forlorn that Dean feels much of his anger evaporating. He falls back into the folding chair and rubs at his eyes.

“Dean, I’m sorry.” Cas says sincerely.

“You know, this is on me,” Dean sighs. “I should’ve known better. A big, famous guy like you, this kind of thing happens all the time. What is it? You’ve got a piece of strange in every city and a boyfriend waiting back home?” Cas’ face hardens in indignation.

“No, of course not!” He huffs, brows furrowed, “I don’t sleep with random people, Dean! Is that the kind of guy you think I am?!”

“Well, you fell into bed with me pretty quick,” Dean counters, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, because I liked you!” Cas exclaims, frowning, “I still do in fact! You’re funny, and passionate, and… so hot.” Cas pauses, embarrassed by his own admission, “It’s hard not to like you!” Dean snorts bashfully and focuses his attention on his cuticles.

“Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Dean sighs wryly. Cas reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and kneels down so that he’s eye-to-eye with Dean.

“Well, let me make it up to you then,” Cas says, handing a folded piece of paper to Dean. Confused, Dean takes it, unfolding it to reveal a check for $20,000.

“What is this?” Dean mumbles.

“It’s an investment,” Cas answers. Dean’s face tightens angrily.

“Are you trying to pay me off?” He hisses.

“No! I want to invest in you, in the Bakery, Winchester and Sons” Cas exclaims, rising to his feet throwing his arms wide.

“You’re kidding me?” Dean says, incredulous, “Cas, if you’re doing this because you feel guilty…?”

“This has nothing to do with me feeling guilty!” Cas snaps, earning a doubtful look from Dean. “It honestly doesn’t! I like this place, I have a lot of faith in it. You took my advice even when you didn’t have to and even improved on it.” Dean shrugs shyly.

“Yeah, sure… It was okay,” Dean mumbles.

“How much has business increased? 8? 9 percent?” Cas asks.

“11,” Dean answers with a small, proud smirk.

“If you could do all of that with $5,000,” Castiel gestures toward the kitchen door, “I would love to see what you’d do with four times that!” Dean glances up at Cas and bites his lip.

“I don’t know, Cas…” Dean trails off.

“... and if I have to be in Chicago more often to… check on my investment, or maybe,” Cas swallows nervously, “Take the owner to dinner for a progress report.” Dean quirks his lips, trying not to laugh at Cas’ awkward attempt at flirting. He stands up and looks Cas straight in the eye.

“Well, I’m sure Sam would appreciate the invitation,” Dean jokes. Cas gives him an exasperated eye-roll as Dean grasps his fist in the fabric of Cas’ shirt and closes the distance between them.

Cas’s mouth is just as he remembers, delicious and soft and opening willingly for Dean. Cas’ hands wind around his neck and it’s all the encouragement Dean needs to respond the same, sliding his fingers down over Cas’ sides and pulling him flush against Dean.

They stand there behind the bakery, lost in each other, until the sound of a cough breaks them apart. Dean turns to see Kevin peaking out the backdoor.

“Uh, Dean… There’s a lady on the phone who wants to order for 6 dozen key-lime cookies by tonight. Do you want to talk to her?” Dean sighs heavily and nods. Kevin ducks back into the kitchen, and as he walks away Dean reaches out for Castiel’s hand.

“C’mon, Mr. Investor,” Dean says playfully, pulling Cas into the kitchen after him.

 

  
**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. This was my first time participating in any sort of BB challenge, and I had a lot of fun with it. 
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://powerfulweak.tumblr.com/)


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